Merry at dinner and dedde at supper'
by vmariew
Summary: Athos and d'Artagnan return from a mission to Picardy but all is not well. As Aramis states later, "Give me a broken bone to set, a bullet to dig out and a knife wound to sew and I can do something, but this disorder of the mind leaves me helpless."
1. Chapter 1

_**Dear all, I am painfully aware that I have not continued 'Retribution' for nearly three weeks and I apologise profusely. The IT man successfully retrieved all my material from the portable hard drive but that, together with my chaotic summer, paled into insignificance on the sudden and unexpected death of a dear friend of many years fifteen days ago. A few of you did know and I have valued your kind words and thoughts so much in recent days. Thank you.**_ _ **I seem to have been full of excuses of late but I hit a wall with my writing that has only begun to break down since the weekend so it's back to 'Retribution' this week.**_

 _ **In the meantime, here is something I started over the summer, intending it for the August challenge 'Heat' but the IT debacle ended that and now it is too long for 'Confusion' so (although I always told myself I would not publish two simultaneously) I thought you deserved something to read and have consequently uploaded this for your delectation (I hope!) The title is, if I recall correctly, also from Holinshed, hence the odd spelling.**_

 _ **Little historical footnotes will begin to emerge at some point but not today.**_

" **MERRY AT DINNER AND DEDDE AT SUPPER"**

Set shortly after S1E8.

" **A newe Kynde of sickness came through the whole region, which was so sore, so peynfull, and sharp, that the lyke was never harde of to any mannes rememberance before that tyme."** _ **Holinshed's Chronicles**_ **, published in 1557.**

 **PROLOGUE**

Tréville stood on the balcony overlooking the yard as the morning's training and exercises drew to a close. The sound of groans from expended energy, laughter and men's chatter drifted up to him as his musketeers took turns to sluice sweating bodies from buckets of cold water prior to eating their midday meal. Already, two of his _Inseparables_ were sitting at their customary table at the bottom of the stairs that led up to his office, quarters and the balcony on which he now stood. They were to be found there at any time of day, duty and other plans permitting: bad weather or the onset of winter were usually the only incentives for them to move within doors to the small and inadequate room that served as the regimental mess. They had completed a night's guard duty at the palace, rested for a few hours and were now eating as they awaited the arrival of their two friends.

Porthos and Aramis had not questioned his decision to send Athos and d'Artagnan together on a routine errand for King Louis, namely taking a missive and other papers to the Comte de Beauvais in the Picardy region, but he had seen in their expressions and body language that they had desperately wanted to accompany their brothers on this mission beyond Paris, d'Artagnan's first since becoming the King's Champion and gaining his commission.

The Captain had his reasons though, deciding that it was an important time for both mentor and mentee to spend together. Athos had initially been reluctant in taking on the tutelage of the would-be musketeer but a friendship had developed that transcended the responsibility of training. Porthos, Aramis and Athos had been a close trio for several years, their brotherhood envied by some of their colleagues and totally exclusive until the abrupt arrival of the farm boy from Gascony, who successfully inveigled himself into their circle and the three had become an accepted and recognised four. That Athos was proud of the moment when d'Artagnan was given his commission by the King was beyond question but, ever one to guard his emotions, he had formally shaken the younger man's hand rather than envelop him in the congratulatory bear-hugs meted out by Aramis and Porthos. Standing to one side and cradling the arm wounded by the Red Guard's representative in the challenge, Tréville was convinced that he had seen disappointment in d'Artagnan's eyes, albeit misguidedly for the honour had been conferred upon Athos to buckle on him the prestigious leather pauldron that he had sought for so long. The Captain did not perceive any problem but wanted to afford them the opportunity to be and work together without distraction.

Beauvais was over a day's ride from Paris and he anticipated that their task would not be onerous but generally afforded them a maximum of five days for completion. Given the group's dynamics, he had made sure that he kept the other two as busy as possible but now they sat waiting for the return of their brothers. The deadline was approaching but there was, as yet, no need to worry as the pair was not overdue.

They were not kept waiting for long for the sound of horses' hooves heralded the arrival of riders and the two musketeers in question, obviously weary and coated in dust, rode through the archway and into the yard. As their friends rose to greet them, a stable boy emerged and waited as the men slid from their mounts and retrieved their saddlebags before he led the animals away. Much back-slapping and hand-shaking ensued, initiated by the two who had remained at the garrison and they were full of questions for the newcomers as to the success of their journey. For a moment, Tréville could not suppress a smile at the obvious display of their deep camaraderie.

As to be expected, d'Artagnan was doing most of the talking as he animatedly gave an outline of their time from Paris. It was not long, however, before he cast fleeting sidelong glances towards the quieter, more taciturn member of the group and there was a hint of a growing anxiety. Tréville watched the interaction between mentor and mentee with growing interest. Was d'Artagnan seeking Athos' agreement or approval about the details he was sharing with the others? If so, that tacit endorsement was not forthcoming from Athos. What had transpired on the road then? Had the pair experienced some sort of disagreement? Had Tréville's well-intentioned plan failed somehow?

He studied the young man whom he had long-regarded as his unofficial lieutenant and the first seeds of a niggling unease began to take root and develop. Immediately, he discounted an argument between the two; although Athos was very guarded about his thoughts and feelings, he was not one to harbour a resentment. There were, undoubtedly, occasions when he was quick to anger and Tréville had been witness to rare displays of a ferocious temper but they were usually short-lived, especially where his brothers were concerned.

Now, he stood with the other three but not as a part of them, or so it seemed to Tréville. Athos continued to say nothing and appeared one moment to be deep in thought and the next distractedly looking about him, saddle bag trailing from his hand and onto the ground. Not once did his eyes rest upon his friends and he exuded an air of intense restlessness, a trait that was alarmingly atypical of him. Transfixed, the Captain continued to watch as d'Artagnan cast another perplexed glance in Athos' direction and it was only then that Porthos and Aramis seemed to notice anything amiss.

The clatter of pewter dishes falling onto the floor and the subsequent stream of imaginative invective from Serge in the kitchen successfully drowned out the question that Porthos had asked of the silent musketeer who, without answering, began to walk away from the group. Through leaning more obviously over the balcony and because Aramis raised his voice, Tréville was able to hear the next exchange.

"Athos! You have said little, my friend. Where are you going? Have you nothing to add to d'Artagnan's account? Athos!"

It was only when Aramis shouted his name the final time that Athos, already almost back at the entrance to the garrison, stopped and revolved slowly, his face puzzled.

"What did you say?" he asked, as if realising at last that a question had been directed towards him.

"Where are you going?" Aramis persisted.

There was a long pause and Tréville could not help but wonder if Athos was thinking about an appropriately biting riposte at such an unnecessary inquiry or if he were trying to remember the purpose for his moving away.

"I have to check the guard at the gate," he eventually answered, an edge to his voice clearly indicating his irritation at being asked something so painfully obvious.

Porthos and Aramis simultaneously looked towards the young Gascon in uncertainty but the newest musketeer merely shrugged for he could not explain the action.

Athos was about to move again when Porthos spoke.

"Why?"

Another pause. "Why what?" Athos asked as if he had completely forgotten the comment that had initiated the question.

Porthos sighed with exasperation. If Athos had decided to play some sort of new game at his expense with this odd behaviour, he did not appreciate it. Besides, any such game was usually his domain, in league with Aramis. He pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger as he composed himself.

"Why are you checkin' the guard at the gate? They changed at the allotted time and are in place; I can see 'em from 'ere," Porthos said carefully and deliberately.

Athos remained where he was standing but turned his head towards the gate, that same frown of confusion contorting his features.

"I don't understand. There are not enough men on duty," his voice was low but the distinct timbre still carried to where his three friends waited, trying to make sense of his words.

Tréville knew that it was time to intervene.

"Athos," he called, straightening up from where he had been leaning on the balustrade. "I await your report. I need you to do so immediately."

The words were couched as a distinct order and, under normal circumstances, there would be no hesitation on Athos' part to respond but now he stood, weight shifting from one foot to the other and his gaze alternating indecisively between the gate and Tréville.

"Now," the Captain emphasised and began to descend the stairs, anticipating that he would have to go and get the musketeer himself - another unheard of turn of events.

He need not have worried as Athos moved to meet him but stopped directly in front of him as if awaiting further instruction.

"Up in the office," Tréville explained, realising that he had not been explicit as to where the report was to be delivered but had not thought such a directive was warranted for Athos always went directly to the Captain's office to give his succinct account. He still did not move. "Go now, wait for me there and I will follow shortly."

Tréville spelled out the instructions slowly as if to a child and was rewarded by a slight dip of the head as Athos acknowledged him, stepped round him somewhat warily and moved with a heavy tread towards the stairs. It was not until he had reached the upper level and entered the office that Tréville rounded upon d'Artagnan.

"What is going on? What is the matter with him? Did something happen? Is he drunk?"

D'Artagnan knew only one answer for sure. "He's not drunk; not a drop has passed his lips since we shared a bottle of wine early yesterday evening. He has had neither the amount nor the opportunity for more; I swear it."

"He is not himself though," Aramis stated, concern etched on his handsome features.

The sigh d'Artagnan breathed was one of relief. "I am glad you think so; I was beginning to worry that I was imagining things."

"What things? How long has this been going on?" Tréville pressed.

"An hour, maybe a little longer. He seemed fine when I awoke; I had taken first watch and he made me wake him at midnight, insisting that he take a longer duty, but I do not believe he had had a restful sleep. We resumed our journey and all was well until we began to approach Paris. He made us stop three times in quick succession so that he could check that he still had the letters for the King in his saddlebag; they could not have gone anywhere in between times for we met no-one. Then he made me unpack my bag because he was adamant that one of the documents had somehow made its way into my keeping. It was a long while before I could convince him otherwise."

"That is not like Athos," Aramis murmured to Porthos.

"Too right," the man growled by way of reply.

"That's not all," d'Artagnan was clearly uncomfortable, as if he were betraying his friend by revealing what had happened on the road home. "Our pistols were loaded and within easy reach as usual in the saddle holsters. Suddenly he was obsessed with the notion that I had not kept my weapon clean and demanded that I let him look at it, berating me that I would not be ready for an attack. Of course it was clean and he could find no fault, but then he believed that it would not fire properly so he had me prime it and shoot at a specific tree branch. It worked perfectly but still he had me clean and reload it, which took more time. All the while, he was circling me on horseback and scrutinising both the way ahead and the route we had just taken. He was muttering …." His voice trailed off as if this were to be one revelation too many.

"Mutterin' what?" Porthos persisted.

"That the Comte de Beauvais had sent his men to follow us or that they were going to overtake us on another route and intercept us before we reached Paris."

"Why would the Comte do that? Had your errand met with unexpected problems?" Tréville demanded.

"On the contrary, it had been an unmitigated success. There was nothing to go wrong and the Comte himself had been most accommodating, but as we neared Paris, Athos got it into his head that he had been duped in some way; that the Comte was not all that he made out to be."

"What gave him that idea?" Aramis wanted to know.

"Nothing," d'Artagnan hesitated. "At least, nothing that I had seen but he is the one with experience and he has _never_ given me cause to doubt or question his instincts so I decided that I must have missed something; we were both uneasy and constantly on alert for an ambush and then …then we reached the fork in the road before the north gate. We have ridden that way so many times; we could do that route blindfolded but … but Athos began to ride the wrong way and I had to call him back. I thought he was going to argue, to be angry with me and I had thought him so distracted by the threat of ambush but when he came back to me, he was ….."

"Well?" Aramis prompted gently.

"He was so confused that, heaven forbid, he even looked afraid and, in that moment, I was sure that he did not even know where he was or why."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Thank you all so much for your support and kind words, especially the guest reviewers whom I have been unable to contact directly._**

 ** _So, what is going on with Athos? Are we - or his friends - any closer to finding out? Was his behaviour in the last chapter merely a minor aberration? Read on ..._**

THE FIRST HOUR

At the sound of booted footsteps on the wooden stairs, the four looked up and saw Athos beginning to descend again. This time it was Tréville intent upon interception and he blocked the musketeer's way by standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the bannister so that there was no opportunity for Athos to get past.

"Where are you going?" Tréville asked, struggling to sound calm and with no trace of censure in his tone for he was increasingly concerned for the well-being of one of his most trusted men. This display of behaviour deviated far from the norm.

Athos was clearly troubled. "I have to check the guard; it must be doubled," he insisted.

Tréville looked to the other _Inseparables_ and spoke loudly, deliberately, as he hoped they would join his play-acting without question.

"Why don't I get Porthos and Aramis to do that for you?" He heard the pair enthusiastically give their consent to the task. "You must be tired after your journey and you have not yet had the chance to make your report. I am eager to hear it for you must explain to me the need for checking the guard. As Captain of the garrison, it is incumbent upon me to know immediately of any threat and to act accordingly." He stepped up onto the same tread just as Athos rubbed at his right temple as if in the early throes of an intense headache.

Recovering rapidly, Athos gazed at his superior officer with unrelenting intensity. "The guard must be doubled and the garrison put on high alert."

"But of course," Tréville attempted to placate him. "Porthos and Aramis have that in hand. Now I need to hear your report. It sounds as if it is going to be very important."

"But Captain …" d'Artagnan began. He did not know what kind of report Athos was going to make and he did not want Tréville caught between vague truth and utter fantasy.

"Easy," Porthos said, grabbing him by the arm to stop him. "The Captain will talk with Athos an' he'll know what to do, soon as he hears Athos' report. Meanwhile, why don't you come an 'elp Aramis an' me check the guard."

With his objections falling on deaf ears, d'Artagnan let himself be led away by the other two, but not before they had seen Tréville put a fatherly arm around Athos' shoulders, turn him round on the step and guide him up towards the office.

Aramis was watching their departure the whole time and, as the door closed on the Captain and their friend, he ground to a halt, tapped Porthos on the shoulder and headed towards the places they had earlier vacated at the table. They had left d'Artagnan to walk on a few paces before he realised that they were no longer there and he raced over to join them.

"I thought we were going to check the guard," he said.

"Of course not," Aramis explained. "That was just a ruse by Tréville to get Athos to go with him quietly."

"Now," said Porthos, clapping a large hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and forcing him to sit on the bench, "why don't you start at the beginnin' and tell us exactly how long Athos has been actin' strange an' what he's been doin' and sayin'. I'm thinkin' you might 'ave only told us the 'alf of it."

"If he's ailing in some way," Aramis continued, his face one of ill-suppressed concern, "we need to know all the details."

In the office, Tréville sank onto the hard chair behind his desk and indicated to Athos to pull up a chair and do likewise, but he was not surprised when the younger musketeer ignored him and resolutely chose to stand.

"A hard ride?" the Captain began by way of opening the conversation.

Athos thought for a moment. "We did not push the mounts too zealously at the start, we felt little need but when Beauvais' men set off in pursuit of us, we did have to press the animals hard."

His voice and expression was the Athos of old, stoic and to the point. Retrieving a pile of letters and other documents from his saddlebag, he stepped up to the desk and handed them to Tréville; some were addressed to the King.

"From the Comte," he announced needlessly and Tréville looked up just in time to see him drop the saddlebag to the floor, frown and rub at his temple again.

Tréville noted the action but made no comment upon it as he sifted through the papers he had been given. A long ride, at least one night spent sleeping brokenly under the stars and an apparently tense conclusion to the errand were sufficient to induce a headache. As he broke the seal on one missive to peruse its contents, he urged Athos to begin his report whilst he continued to read. He was not concentrating on what was written but listening closely to what Athos had to say.

There was distinct relief to be felt when he heard the manner of the young man's delivery. The rich timbre, familiar cadence and coherence of detail were all there as Tréville had come to expect; Athos may be economical in his words but he missed nothing and communicated all, which was why his behaviour in the yard had been so jarringly different and, according to d'Artagnan, this aberration had to have been ongoing for a while. He might be the newest musketeer but the lad had already proven that he was not given to flights of fancy.

There was nothing in the verbal account to suggest that Beauvais was anything other than a loyal nobleman to the crown.

Tréville laid down the letter in order to give Athos his undivided attention. "And what led you to believe that you were being followed? That it was Beauvais' men? Did you see them? Did they present some kind of direct threat to the pair of you?"

They were natural questions to ask considering that the report which Athos gave noticeably ended with his and d'Artagnan's departure from the Comte. He made no mention of the subsequent pursuit, an omission that was strangely glaring in light of his insistence to increase garrison security.

Even as Tréville watched, he saw the confusion reappear in Athos' eyes and there was a drawn-out hesitation as he considered his reply. "No, I didn't see anyone."

"Then why did you think you were being followed?" Tréville repeated, modulating his usually gruff voice for he did not want to sound angry.

"I thought ….," Athos began. "That is, I was sure …. Gut instinct."

Tréville raised an eyebrow. Gut instinct was far from being a bizarre response; instinct kept many a soldier alive in battle and those who were sadly lacking in it had long since gone to meet their maker but, in this instance, accompanied by the incomplete sentences, the reasoning was weak, inadequate. Athos was incapable of justifying his perception and being unable to explain himself was not in the man's nature. Something was seriously amiss.

"Get cleaned up and have something to eat," Tréville ordered kindly.

"But my report?" Athos' frown deepened.

Now it was Tréville's turn to frown. Had Athos already forgotten that he had given his report? What was going on with the man?

"You have made your report and it was, as usual, clear and succinct, unless you have anything else appertaining to the letters that are to be delivered to the Palace."

"What are you doing about the guard?" Athos asked suddenly.

"Porthos and Aramis are taking care of that for me, remember?"

"But it's not just the main gate. We have to consider the perimeter as well."

"And we will," Tréville reassured him. He decided to take a different approach for many was the occasion when he had seen Athos' ability as a strategist. Perhaps he could encourage more clarity of thought. "I need more information from you about the reasons behind Beauvais' animosity. Why is he intent upon attacking the garrison? If you were at his chateau, you must have seen the numbers of men he commands. What size of force should we expect? Is the King in danger? Should we increase the guards at the palace as a result?"

Given the level of confusion that Athos had demonstrated several times already, Tréville anticipated another perplexed look and the stumbling uncertainty at the barrage of questions. He was not prepared for the sudden change. Re-emergent was the cold expression, the calculating mind and the reasoned delivery.

"Within the chateau were enough trained men to provide a small army. This number could be easily augmented by menfolk called upon from the surrounding villages, all tenants for the Comte. They would not have the same level of expertise but, deployed efficiently, they could do damage. It is highly unlikely that Beauvais would be in a position to launch a full-scale attack on the city but he is more than capable of the utmost subterfuge. No doubt he would split his forces and they would enter through the various city gates in the guise of being ordinary travellers. They would rendezvous at a predetermined place and begin their assault from within the city walls. We must overcome any animosity or competition we have with the Red Guard. Cardinal Richelieu must be made to understand the seriousness of the situation so that we join forces to guard both King and city. There is strength in our greater numbers and combined experience. Beauvais does not stand a chance."

He stopped abruptly and it was seconds before Tréville realised that he was not going to speak again. The Captain cleared his throat, giving him precious time to gather his thoughts. Athos had sounded so calm, his tone and explanation so credible that Tréville had to remind himself that he had still not provided one shred of evidence to support his claim of an imminent attack by a man known for his loyalty to France. Admittedly, that did not mean a much trusted man could not become a traitor if he so chose but Beauvais was not high on the list of potential turn-coats.

"I thank you for your advice and will make arrangements to see the Cardinal forthwith," Tréville lied, adopting a similarly business-like manner. "Now go and get something to eat." Then he calmly turned his attention to the papers on the desk.

For once, Athos did not seem to recognise the dismissal and continued to stand there so that Tréville was forced to look up at him again, wondering if there was something pressing to be shared.

"Your arm!" Athos suddenly blurted out.

"Yes?"

"You are not wearing the sling." He was referring to the support Aramis had insisted that Tréville wear after his injury had been treated.

"No, there is no longer any need."

"But it is only two weeks since you received your hurt; you must look after yourself," Athos went on, a note of creeping anxiety evident in his voice.

"I thank you for your concern but it hardly even aches now. I have not worn the sling for the past three days," Tréville gave a reassuring smile.

"Perhaps you should have Aramis look at it. I can get him for you," and the younger man turned to leave.

"Athos!" Tréville stopped him. "Aramis has been tending it; there is no need to bother him now. I am fine, I assure you; go."

Even as he departed, Athos' eyes roamed the office, his expression puzzled as though he were seeing the room for the first time. Gone was the calculating soldier of a few minutes before and Tréville sat still, considering his limited options.

That something was wrong was obvious, but what? Athos did not appear injured in any way. D'Artagnan would have found some way to communicate to them if the musketeer had suffered a blow to the head that might occasion such inexplicable shifts in behaviour. If a physician were summoned, what could Tréville say? That one of his men was behaving most oddly and claiming outrageous things? What could a medical man do in that event, short of questioning Athos' sanity and declaring him unfit for duty? At best, he would be told to rest. A physician unable to make a diagnosis might resort to suggesting less satisfactory treatments such as purging and bloodletting, just to be seen to be doing something. At worst – and Tréville would fight tooth and nail not for this outcome – the diagnosis might be that Athos had lost all reason and was destined for an asylum.

Perhaps, Tréville thought, the young musketeer's behaviour could simply be ascribed to exhaustion and a good night's sleep would remedy all ills. Perhaps that was it – Athos was sickening for something. If that were the case, it was not anything that Tréville had seen before, not with an initial symptom of such irrationality but he knew that, even at his age, there was much of which he was ignorant. He tried to settle and concentrate on the newly arrived communications, reading that which required his attention and sorting those documents going on to the palace but familiar, raised voices from below his open window interrupted him. The tension was evident.

He was starting down the wooden staircase when the exchange between the four at their table became more heated, the remnants of lunch strewn across the rough surface. Athos was walking away as Aramis rose to his feet. Having eaten, musketeers were beginning to reappear, ready to resume their training or to head off to undertake prescribed duties but the apparent disagreement between the close friends promised a fascinating diversion and a number of men loitered to see how the situation would unfold.

"Athos!" Aramis remonstrated with him. "I take exception to your accusation and am far from being negligent. I checked the Captain's arm and shoulder yesterday; they are virtually healed. I really do not need to look again today."

Athos rounded on him. "You don't know that! An infection could begin at any time. Now, more than ever with a threat imminent, we cannot afford for the Captain to succumb to illness."

"Not after all this..." Aramis began but Athos cut him off.

"And what about the guards?" He did a complete circle, rapidly taking in the immediate area of the garrison.

" _Now_ what about the guards?" Porthos asked as he stood and walked towards his friend. "What do you mean?"

"The guards!" Athos backed away, gesticulating wildly. His mood was swinging from undisguised anger to bordering upon panic. "We need more guards on duty to ward off the attack! Tréville must increase the guards. I have said so and you are all ignoring me. Do you not believe me? How is it that I am the only one who can see the danger here?"

His three friends exchanged alarmed glances in the face of such uncharacteristic behaviour. More men were assembling in the yard now, word spreading even if the sound of terse voices had not already drawn them to the spectacle. Unnerved anew by what he was hearing and seeing, Tréville hurried down the steps and joined Aramis as d'Artagnan reached out a calming hand.

"What attack, Athos?" he asked, deliberately keeping his voice soft as Athos became increasingly agitated and rubbed frantically at both temples. "You keep speaking of an attack but what have you heard that we don't know?"

"The Comte de Beauvais," Athos said, incredulously. "You were there; you know he is a threat to the musketeers and then he will hurt the King. How can you stand there and pretend that you know nothing of this, d'Artagnan? You were with me." His face darkened and he took a menacing step forward. "Unless you are in this plot with the Comte de Beauvais. Your accompanying me gave you ample opportunity to finalise details of the insurrection."

As he lunged, Porthos leaped in between him and d'Artagnan and grabbed him by the shoulders, struggling to hold him still for he suddenly seemed imbued with a terrible strength, even for the big musketeer. "Stop it, Athos. I don't know what's goin' on here but you've got it all wrong."

D'Artagnan turned to look back at the Captain, spread his hands, shrugged and mouthed, "What? I don't know what he's talking about."

Tréville nodded encouragingly to the young man. "I know; don't worry."

They were the wrong words to use.

Still fighting against Porthos, Athos' temper erupted and he pointed directly at the Captain.

"You sent us there. You made him go with me. The others were not allowed to accompany us. Why not? We always travel on missions together so why not this time? You knew what d'Artagnan was going to do because he was your messenger. You sent him. That means that you are in on this too."

Tréville was speechless. The situation had dramatically spiralled out of control and he did not know how to answer such incredibly absurd accusations.

"That's rubbish an' you know it," Porthos challenged as he fought to keep his brother from reaching the Captain now.

"Athos," Aramis tried approaching. "What is wrong ...?"

"Nothing,"Athos replied testily. "Nothing is wrong with me. It's you; can't you see this? Can't you see what they are doing?" His voice had risen to a shout, bordering on desperation.

Wrenching himself free from Porthos' grasp, he staggered backwards a few paces, hands held out in front of him as if in the process of warding them off. "Why didn't you ask to come along?" he gasped at Porthos and Aramis. "You would any other time. You chose to stay here. Why? What were you doing?"

Aramis continued to take small steps towards him, his own hands out but in supplication, a calming gesture as he sought to quieten his distracted friend but Athos would have none of it.

"You were planning some nefarious business here, weren't you? That's why you would not come. You are all plotting against the King and I am the only one who can stop you!"


	3. Chapter 3

**_Dear all, thank you so much for the lovely comments. This story certainly seems to have caught your curiosity and thank you to all those who are now following or who have 'favourited'. The situation for Athos does not improve in this chapter and time marches on._**

THE SECOND HOUR

Rotating swiftly, Athos was unnerved even further at the sight of more than twenty other musketeers watching his every move with unveiled fascination. Feeling threatened by their presence and sheer number, his rapier was immediately in his hand as he sliced repeatedly through the air in warning. The spectators backed up, all unwilling to engage in a bout with him when he was in such a strange mood; they knew instinctively that it would have little to do with practice and that he would present to them a very real danger.

"You men," Tréville bellowed so that his voice carried across the yard, "leave now. Go about your business. There is no need for alarm."

Unconvinced and muttering under their breaths, the men slowly departed, disappointed that they would not bear witness to the outcome. They had never seen the like; one of the Captain's _Inseparables_ had gone mad and they were desperate to know what would happen next, although all would have admitted they would not want to run the risk of antagonising the regiment's best swordsman any further by remaining, given his present inexplicable state of mind.

As the men departed, it was Porthos who moved to grab his sword from where he had lain it on the table whilst he ate. Reluctant as he was to fight Athos in case he hurt him or worse, he would not hold back from doing so if it proved necessary in protecting his brothers and the Captain.

"No," Aramis insisted, resting a hand lightly on the back of the blade to persuade Porthos to desist. He sensed rather than saw Porthos lower the weapon as he kept his eyes on Athos who stood, chest heaving as if he had just ceased some strenuous activity and his eyes wild in panic.

Extending his hands again so that the agitated musketeer could see them at all times, Aramis took tentative, slow steps in his direction.

"Athos, my friend, I mean you no harm. I am unarmed; my weapons are over there on the table." He saw Athos cast a fleeting glance to the table concerned before shuffling back a step or two, endeavouring to maintain the distance between them. Aramis surreptitiously closed the gap again. "We are friends and have been so for years. I would never do anything to hurt or betray you, you must remember that. If we have been slow to act on your concerns, I am truly sorry. That is our fault. Let us make amends. We will do as you say. We stand with you in this; we would never betray the King or France and we most certainly are not in league with Beauvais. Please, believe me."

Athos seemed to be listening, weighing up Aramis' words but then he screwed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head as if to erase some dizziness even as he swayed dangerously. He dropped the rapier which clattered uselessly to the ground as he pushed the palms of his hands against his brow in a vain attempt to ward off the increasing pain and gave a long, low groan.

"What is it? Do you have a headache?" Aramis asked quietly, catching his friend's elbow to steady him. Athos nodded and groaned again. "How long have you had it?"

"I don't know," he swallowed hard.

"Did you wake up with it this morning?"

Athos shook his head.

"Did it develop when you were riding?"

"It was when we saw Paris," Athos answered eventually.

Aramis made a quick calculation in his head. "Some two hours ago then." With Athos standing there, temporarily distracted and his eyes closed to the pain, he took the advantage of glancing back over his shoulder to the others before adding, "That would be about the time you thought Beauvais was in pursuit."

"I wish he had been drinking," Tréville muttered to Porthos quietly.

The big man pulled a face. "So do I. I know how to deal with that but I don't reckon to knowin' what's goin' on 'ere."

"Do you think there is a link?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

"Quite possibly." Aramis reached out a hand cautiously to touch Athos' forehead, wondering how his action might be received but there was no response. "There is no fever at least."

"We have to defend the garrison," Athos said abruptly.

"Of course we do," Aramis humoured him, concerned that the confusion and anxiety did not seem to have fully abated. "Thanks to your warning, the Captain can - and will - increase the guard. We will be ready to face anything."

"That's right," Tréville said, clearing his throat as he prepared to exacerbate the lie. "The guard will be increased within the next thirty minutes, including the perimeter as you suggested, and I will write an additional warning to His Majesty so that I can include it with the documents you brought back with you. I will have someone go to the palace within the hour."

Athos seemed to relax and Tréville drew Porthos aside to instruct him to find someone to go to the palace and request that the King's physician attend upon them at the garrison with all haste. Senior in years, the man was very experienced and knowledgeble and the Captain hoped that he would be able to throw some light upon the situation which was far from normal. The manner in which they were talking to Athos - as though he were some highly-strung colt that would bolt at a moment's notice – was completely unnatural, as was the fact that he had not even noticed, for he would not have tolerated their apparent condescension at any other time.

"d'Artagnan, are you absolutely sure that Athos did not suffer a head injury at any point?" Tréville asked, desperate to find some logical reason for Athos' irrationality.

"Totally sure," the young musketeer affirmed. "We were together at all times. Despite what he is claiming, we never came under any sort of threat; everyone at the Comte's chateau was courteous and welcoming. He never drank to excess and never had anything remotely like an accident. I mean, he didn't stand up suddenly and bang his head or anything. I just don't understand it."

"An' I certainly don't like it," Porthos said. "I'll go an' send someone now."

He had not even taken a step when he saw Athos shrug off the hold that Aramis had kept to steady him.

"Athos?" Aramis called as his friend stumbled away from him. He only managed a few steps to the side wall of the stable. Supporting himself with a hand against the wood, he bent and, without any warning, was suddenly violently sick.

"What next?" Tréville said to no-one in particular as he watched Aramis move to help his stricken brother.

"I'm goin' to get that physician myself," Porthos announced grimly and strode away.

"Come, my friend," Aramis said softly, a hand lightly rubbing comforting circles between the sick man's shoulders. "You are not well and need rest; let me help you." Totally perplexed by what was happening, he could feel the uncontrollable trembling course through Athos' slender frame as he retched repeatedly.

Eventually, Athos wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened as best he could but he held one arm protectively across his stomach as though in discomfort.

"I'm cold," he moaned.

"Then we will get you warm," Aramis reassured him as he took his arm and tried to lead him back in the direction of the garrison infirmary but the sick musketeer's legs buckled with the effort and he would have hit the ground were it not for the swift intervention of d'Artagnan.

Together, he and Aramis held Athos up and supported him as they made their way excruciatingly slowly across the yard and into the infirmary with Tréville leading the way, issuing a string of instructions to Serge, who had chosen just that moment to appear from the kitchens to clear the table abandoned by the four brothers-in-arms. It was another ten minutes before they had settled Athos in one of the cots. Despite his repeated complaints of being cold, they thought it better to divest him of his leather doublet, breeches and boots as they tried to make him comfortable.

Prompted by Aramis, he rinsed his mouth and obeyed the next instruction to sip at more water before he lay down and they piled three blankets on him but still it did not seem enough as he began to shiver visibly.

"And you still have no idea what's wrong with him?" Tréville asked again.

"None whatsoever," Aramis replied. "Give me a broken bone to set, a bullet to dig out and a knife wound to sew and I can do something, but this disorder of the mind leaves me helpless. My first thought would have been a severe concussion."

"But d'Artagnan here is adamant that he could not have sustained a head injury," Tréville added.

"I know, even though the prolonged confusion and sickness would suggest otherwise."

"I have never seen such delusional confusion though," the Captain interrupted.

"Neither have I and seeing Athos like it, well," D'Artagnan shrugged an apology at his subsequent admission, "I found it frightening. It was so unlike him."

"I agree," Aramis continued, "but this uncontrollable shivering is something new. With the blankets that we have wrapped around him, I would have expected him to warm up by now and maybe even break into a sweat but there is no sign of any change."

"Should I ask Serge to heat up a stone?" offered d'Artagnan, eager to do something. A hot stone, wrapped and put in the bed at Athos' feet would surely provide some comfort for the ailing musketeer.

"We lose nothing by trying," Aramis said and offered him his best smile of encouragement. It faded as soon as the young man had gone to fulfil the task and the door had swung shut behind him. The remaining men approached the bedside and whilst Aramis perched on the edge, the Captain stood behind him as they looked down upon their patient.

Always pale, Athos' skin had now taken on an even whiter, almost translucent quality, tinged with grey. His eyes were closed and he seemed oblivious to their presence, caught as he was in his own nightmarish misery. Lying on his side, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around his stomach suggesting some kind of abdominal cramp, his teeth chattered loudly and his shivering had become so extreme, that Aramis could feel the movement of the shaking cot where he was sitting.

Aramis laid a hand on Athos' forehead to gauge his temperature again and then tucked the blankets tighter around him.

"Do you still feel sick?" he asked quietly.

There was no hesitation as Athos shook his head briefly, the nausea having passed, but his eyes remained closed and he let out a long, low moan at the movement.

Aramis moved his hand down to Athos' shoulder. "And does your head still hurt?"

Athos looked up at him, his green eyes heavy-lidded with barely concealed pain. "Everywhere," his voice was little more than an agonised whisper.

"Everywhere?" Aramis was baffled by the strange answer.

"Everywhere hurts. My head, neck, shoulders; all my limbs." Unable to suppress it, he groaned again, only this time more loudly. "They all hurt," and his body trembled with intense chills.

Puzzled, Aramis rose and stretched to ease a feigned stiffness in his back as he moved to join Tréville. Together, they watched Athos burrow down beneath the blankets but nothing could subdue the violent shivering that wracked his lean body.

"He seems to be developing more symptoms all the time," Aramis said uneasily.

"And we are still none the wiser," Tréville agreed. "Could it be a kind of ague?" he wondered, clutching at any possibility in the hope of finding some sort of answer.

"The aches and shivering would suggest it. It could even account for the vomiting but not the confusion, not the troubled mind. That is not any ague that I have seen."

They were still standing, lost in thought when d'Artagnan re-entered the room, lightly tossing a bundle of cloth from one hand to the other. "Hot," he announced needlessly. "Is it best by his feet?" he asked in deference to Aramis' greater expertise.

"No," Aramis decided, moving towards the bed and pulling back the blankets. "Let us try it at his back," and he watched as d'Artagnan placed the wrapped stone closely behind Athos without actually touching him for the heat could be felt emanating from the thin material as the blankets were replaced.

There was no response to indicate that Athos was aware of their having done anything to ease his suffering. He remained curled on his right side, his face pained and his eyes shut as his teeth continued to chatter noisily through his ragged breathing. Gently, Aramis laid a hand on his brow and stroked back the dark, unruly hair from his friend's white face.

"Still no hint of fever as yet," he confirmed.

D'Artagnan folded his arms, hands caught tightly beneath his armpits as he surveyed his sick mentor with a sense of overwhelming helplessness. "I hope Porthos returns soon with that physician."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Ague – a Middle English word, from Anglo-French, from Medieval Latin (febris) acuta: literally 'sharp fever'. It was a term given to all sorts of fevers and chills up to and including the time of Shakespeare at the very least. (As Aramis and Tréville discuss possibilities, there had to be something to which they could relate. Influenza – as the chills and joint aches might suggest – was not really identified as such until the terrible outbreak at the close of WWI and documents suggest it was not commonly referred to by that name until the 1930s. Consequently, I had to use the ague!)**_

 _ **Symptoms for 'whatever it is' generally seemed to follow a certain order in the sources I read, with slight variations or lack of clarity; some overlapped. Vomiting was only mentioned in one source and that nauseous state seemed to be swiftly over.**_

 _ **So, Athos' problems to date include: acute anxiety, headache, dizziness, vomiting, stomach ache, a near state of collapse, suffering from extreme cold/chills and aching in his limbs/extremities. Don't think I've missed anything!**_

 _ **The chapter headings relating to time are crucial as the onset of the various symptoms are very swift but all will be revealed later!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter. Your speculations were entertaining to read. Yes, Athos is definitely NOT a well musketeer and the news will get no better with the arrival of the physician.**_

 _ **Please bear in mind that the chapter headings relate to the amount of time since Athos returned to the garrison. Of course, his symptoms have been evident for at least another hour before that when he was approaching Paris with d'Artagnan.**_

 _ **I missed doing a disclaimer when I uploaded the first chapter so here it is. These wonderful characters are, sadly, not mine but those of Monsieur Dumas (and then the BBC!)**_

THE THIRD HOUR

"Where is Porthos with the physician?" d'Artagnan said impatiently yet again as he paced the floor, opened the door to look through it for the umpteenth time and ran a hand through his hair in exasperation when he could not see anyone approaching.

"They will be here soon," Tréville insisted from where he stood against the wall, struggling to remain calm-sounding and reassuring when every fibre of his being wanted to know what was taking the physician so long.

It had been a while since Aramis had vacated his perch on the side of the cot and pulled up a chair. Now he tried to keep himself busy so he reached beneath the blankets to test the temperature of the stone and retrieved it when he discovered that it was cooling and no longer served much purpose. Athos rolled listlessly from his side to his back and onto his side again when he could find no position that afforded him any comfort. The shivering had not eased and Aramis tried to tuck the blankets even tighter beneath Athos' chin.

"There must be something we can do," d'Artagnan said desperately as he observed the action.

"I cannot think of anything else," Aramis said bleakly but his sense of helplessness was abruptly curtailed when the door burst open and Porthos strode in, closely followed by an elderly, white-haired man dressed in a flowing robe over his doublet and breeches.

"Monsieur Gabon, this is Captain Tréville," he stated by way of introduction.

"Captain," Gabon said airily as he shook the officer's hand in greeting. "We have seen each other at the King's court."

"Monsieur," Trévile responded. He indicated his men in turn. "This is Aramis and d'Artagnan; Porthos you have already met."

"Indeed I have; a most persuasive gentleman, I must say." He smiled broadly and then turned his attention to the bed's occupant. "And this young man must be Athos. Porthos told me about him on the way here."

"You took your time," d'Artagnan scolded Porthos as the big man moved past him.

"Yeah, well, he was a hard man to find. He was having an extended lunch with one of the council members after he had treated him for a foot ailment," Porthos replied.

Gabon peeled back the blankets and looked down upon Athos who lay curled up and shaking miserably. "Tell me his symptoms." He listened as Aramis succinctly outlined them and then asked, "How long is it since he fell ill?"

"It must be at least three hours since he started being very anxious; uncharacteristically so."

"Your friend is not given to anxiety?" Gabon asked, curious as to the personality of the young man shivering before him.

Porthos snorted, d'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the prospect and even Tréville allowed himself a low chuckle despite his own worry as Aramis explained on their behalf. "Athos is not given to any extremes of emotional display. He is very close about anything that he feels. I have no doubt that he experiences the same as we all do but he is very guarded about it. We have very rarely seen any sign of 'anxiety' as you put it, so we were confused somewhat by his behaviour and the things that he was saying."

Gabon listened carefully as the four men took turns to recount what they had seen and heard from Athos on the road to and since his return to Paris. When they had finished, the physician rubbed his chin and fell into a reverie which the other men were too polite to interrupt, although Aramis could sense that Porthos was shuffling with increasing impatience. The tension was only alleviated when Athos groaned again.

"So cold," he muttered as best he could.

Aramis crouched beside him, concerned for he could not believe that Athos was still shivering so uncontrollably with no sign of any respite and thought that his energy must be rapidly draining from him.

"How long has he been complaining of being cold and suffering from the chills?" Gabon wanted to know.

"For about an hour now," Tréville answered. "I was wondering if it was some kind of ague."

Gabon did not look convinced. "It is possible given the chills, headache, other pains and vomiting but the extreme anxiety does not normally apply to such an ailment."

Aramis glanced towards Tréville as they recalled their earlier conversation. "It is as we thought."

"In which case we will wait for the next symptoms to manifest themselves," the physician asserted."

"You think there will be others?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I fear there will be."

As he spoke, Gabon looked around the room. Entry through the main door from the yard meant that the rectangular structure opened up to the left and could accommodate six patients comfortably at any one time. Four beds were arranged along the long wall opposite the door with a further two behind the heavy oak door itself. Athos had been placed in the farthest of these two, almost in the bottom left-hand corner of the room to minimise exposure to draughts and in order not to exacerbate his suffering from acute chills. An open fireplace stood along the short wall nearest to him but its iron basket was devoid of logs and Tréville was debating sending for wood to light a fire.

A long table was in the middle of the room, its dark wood bearing the scratches of having been scrubbed clean, although some tell-tale stains remained to show that this was where any necessary surgeries took place; it was a firm surface to support a badly injured man whilst he was treated. A chest, two hard-backed chairs, two further stools and a large plain cabinet made up the remaining furniture in the room, positioned, as they were, in any available space against a wall.

"Where does that door lead?" Gabon asked Aramis, pointing to one that stood opposite the entrance.

"That leads to a room almost half the size of this one where our supplies are kept, herbs dried and ointments or other medications are prepared," Aramis explained.

Gabon nodded and pointed to one at the other end of the wall opposite to where Athos lay. "And that one?"

"Another room for the sick or injured."

"How many can it sleep?" Gabon wanted to know.

"Perhaps five or six."

Aramis waited as Gabon grew thoughtful once more.

"Your 'fear' that you mention suggests that you might have some idea as to what ails Athos," Tréville wanted to draw Gabon back to more pressing matters, "and that it does not bode well."

"Indeed but I do need to be certain and, to that end, I require someone to go back to my rooms and bring me two works from the middle shelf of my books," Gabon said. "I will write down their titles if you could supply me with writing materials."

Tréville furnished him with supplies he found in the cabinet and watched as the physician wrote down the two titles, one in an archaic French and the other in Latin.

"I'll go," d'Artagnan offered but Gabon shook his head.

"I would prefer it if the Captain were to find someone else who is not to enter this room. Until I say otherwise, none of us will be leaving it either, so we will need to make use of that other room."

As the import of his words registered, the musketeers – the Captain included - looked at each other in alarm.

"Do you think that whatever ails Athos is contagious?" Tréville demanded.

"I actually do not know. It is a precautionary measure only, I assure you," Gabon admitted.

"Then why aren't I feelin' very assured right now?" Porthos muttered, earning himself a castigating scowl from his Captain.

"There is always the possibility that whatever it is could be infectious and within the confines of the garrison, where you men live and work in such close proximity to each other, it could spread swiftly so it is better if you restrict contact with the other men forthwith," Gabon continued.

"That make sense," d'Artagnan concurred. "There have been two occasions since I arrived in Paris when someone has been ill, even with just a cold, and then it has felled a number of the men quite quickly."

Aramis had fallen strangely quiet, suspecting that the physician was holding something back, something he was not prepared to divulge as yet. He knew that much depended upon the answer to his next question.

"And if there is a summons from the palace for you or Captain Tréville to attend, will you go?"

If Gabon replied that they would attend upon His Majesty immediately, then whatever was wrong with Athos could spread and was inconvenient but not serious. If the answer was in the negative, Gabon was not prepared to run the risk of the royal household being exposed to anything of an extreme nature and, if that were the case, whatever it was had the potential to be fatal.

Gabon studied Aramis closely and it was clear that they knew only too well what the other was thinking; they understood each other perfectly so there was no need for evasion.

The old man sighed. "If it is what I suspect – hence my sending for the tomes as I want to check my suspicions as well as seeing how Athos' symptoms develop – no-one is sure exactly how it starts or spreads but it can do so frighteningly quickly. Therefore, I suggest that we take every precaution and isolate ourselves here until I can be really sure."

Such a pronouncement did not sit easily with any of them, least of all Tréville, who immediately began to wonder how he could run the garrison effectively and what he would do if he _were_ to be summoned by the King for an important meeting. He snatched up Gabon's notation and went to the door. Throwing it wide, he yelled to the nearest musketeer, held the paper at arm's length and issued the man with several instructions. On his return, he was to knock on the door and leave the books on ground; Serge would do likewise when bringing them food and water and a musketeer was to be positioned outside at all times lest something else was needed and also to prohibit anyone from entering or exiting.

Closing the door again, Tréville was not sure whether or not Gabon might be over-reacting. "Supposing I have just infected that soldier by handing him the piece of paper that both you and I have touched?" he asked provocatively.

"We will just have to hope that is not the case," Gabon said infuriatingly blithely as he moved another chair next to Athos' bed and sat himself on it, arranging his flowing robe carefully. "I can assure you, though, that it is not the plague or cholera."

"And for that we can be thankful," d'Artagnan muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he moved to stand with Porthos.

"Indeed we can," Gabon said, having heard him. D'Artagnan mumbled a sheepish apology. "In the meantime, perhaps you can answer some more questions of mine."

"d'Artagnan is probably the best to help you there as he has been with Athos for the past five days," Tréville explained.

"Excellent!" Gabon said, smiling at the announcement and behaving as if they were about to engage in some entertaining pastime to while away the hours. "Do sit down, gentlemen," and he waited as they re-positioned themselves.

Tréville sat on the other chair, Porthos and d'Artagnan pulled up the two stools as closely as they could to the bedside whilst Aramis sat on the floor by the head of the low cot, back against the wall and a hand absent-mindedly resting on the shivering mound beneath the blankets beside him. Gabon was fascinated that, even with the news that Athos might have some highly contagious disease, not one of them opted to stay as far away from him as possible. In truth, he had expected each of them to hurry for the adjoining room and he had been wondering how he might have secured their help with the patient but this was obviously not going to be a problem for these men.

Either they were totally ignorant of what could unfold and the danger they were in, or the bond of friendship between these men transcended all else. It was touching to think the latter might well be the correct interpretation for they would need all the support they could muster for the patient and each other.

"Now, young man," and he turned his attention to d'Artagnan, "tell me where you have been."

"In Beauvais, in the region of Picardy," d'Artagnan began.

"And was there any sickness there?"

"None of which we were aware."

There was a general murmur of relief.

"Although there was in the village that we came through last night," he continued.

"You never said anything of this!" Aramis said worriedly.

"I did not think anything of it," d'Artagnan was apologetic.

"Anything that might help us with identifying what ails Athos may be important, no matter how insignificant it might seem," Tréville added quietly. He also knew how rapidly an epidemic could spread; he had seen devastating outbreaks first-hand. If Athos had been exposed to something the previous evening and was already demonstrating such unnerving symptoms, what on earth was it?

Worried that he might have been remiss in some way, d'Artagnan was eager to make amends. "We stopped at a small village in the hope that we would be able to find shelter; we had spent the previous night sleeping under the stars, although neither of us had rested well so we were hoping to make up for it but as we arrived, an elderly man came out to us and bade us leave immediately for there were three ill people within the village."

"What was wrong with them?" Gabon queried.

"I don't know and he didn't say. We never thought to ask. We certainly did not see anyone who appeared to be ailing and we were discouraged from even dismounting. We asked if we could buy some supplies from them and we sat on our horses, folk watching us with hostility from a distance until the old man came back. The closest either of us came to any of them was when the old man handed up the sack of supplies to Athos, who paid him with some coins. We said farewell and rode out of the village before finally stopping for the night by a stream."

"Might the old man's hand have made contact with any of Athos' skin?" Gabon was leaning forward on his chair, absorbing the information avidly.

"I don't know; anything is possible. Athos might have touched the old man's palm when he gave him the coins." D'Artagnan looked anxiously around the musketeers and Porthos laid a hand in his shoulder reassuringly.

"What food were you given?" Gabon continued.

"Half a cold chicken, a hunk of cheese, half a loaf of bread that was not from today's baking, some fruit and a small bottle of wine."

"And you both ate the same?"

D'Artagnan thought long and hard. "We shared it all."

Aramis was distracted as Athos, who was dozing fitfully, moved restlessly and moaned. He fed the sick man some water and then settled him as best he could once more, mindful that the conversation had halted as all eyes were upon him and the patient. There was no sign of change in Athos' condition – for better or for worse.

"How long have you been gone from the garrison?" Gabon wanted to know.

"We left late one afternoon and were gone almost five days and five nights."

"You say you spent the last two nights sleeping in the open?"

"And the second night. Athos found an inn the first night and our third was spent at the chateau in Beauvais."

"There was no sickness at the chateau or the inn?"

"As I said, none of which we were aware," d'Artagnan reiterated.

Silence fell upon the group of men, except for the intermittent low groans that emanated from Athos, and they waited as Gabon reflected upon what he had been told so far.

"How old is he?" the old man suddenly asked, taking them all by surprise.

"Don't see what that has got to do with anythin'," Porthos growled.

"It might have a lot to do with it," Gabon retorted, his eyes narrowing. "Well, how old?"

"Twenty-nine, nearly thirty," Aramis answered.

Gabon's eyes widened, although not in apparent surprise at the news; it was more like an unexpected confirmation. "And his family? Is he of good breeding?"

The four men looked at each other, failing to see the relevance of the question and none wanting to divulge the truth of Athos' background.

Eventually, it was Tréville who coughed slightly. "And this is of vital importance to your diagnosis?"

"Oh it could be, Captain. It most definitely could be," Gabon replied, intrigued as to the reason behind the officer's obvious hesitation.

"He is of noble birth," Tréville confirmed. "Athos is the Comte de la Fėre although he has lived as a musketeer for the past five years or more."

Gabon's jaw dropped at the news. "Good heavens! I did not think it possible!"

"Now I know I 'aven't got much time for the aristocracy but are you tryin' to tell us that Athos 'as got this whatever-it-is on account of him bein' twenty-nine and high born?" Porthos was incredulous.

"I know that it sounds hard to believe …." Gabon replied.

"Yeah, it's very 'ard to believe." Porthos was beginning to lose his temper.

"But accounts in the books for which I have sent speak of a disease that particularly – not solely, mind - affected males of a certain age and station in life. Your friend here, if it is what I suspect, falls into all three of those groups."

"And if it is what you suspect," Tréville began, "are we to be relieved or worried?"

Gabon was suddenly extremely serious. "Oh very worried, I assure you, Captain." He glanced at Athos. "If I am right, this young man could be dead within the next hour; there is no cure."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **No diagnosis is ready for Gabon wants to check his historical/medical tomes and I do not want to give too much away in historical footnotes as yet.**_

 _ **Gender, age and status did, according to records, play a strange part in a lot of instances so Gabon's odd questions towards the end did fit with what he would have read.**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Dear all,**

 **Here is the next chapter on the suffering of Athos. Finally his brothers and Captain learn what they are facing. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and to the many who have chosen to follow this story. More next week. I hope you enjoy this!**

 **THE FOURTH HOUR**

Gabon watched and listened to it all, a faintly rueful smile playing across his features as their reaction to his announcement that Athos could be dead within an hour was predictable, loud and full of objections.

Amidst the outburst of their raised voices, he gestured them to quieten down.

"Think of the patient," he gently chided them.

"What do you mean there is no cure? What do you think it is?" Tréville had demanded.

"I would prefer to wait until I have consulted my books," he stalled, "and I really would prefer it if three of you went through to the other room. I will, of course, remain here with one volunteer and we will look after Athos between us."

His insistence was met, as he expected, by firm refusals. Porthos, as if to demonstrate the fact that he was immoveable from his friend's side, slid down the wall and sat on the floor, his legs outstretched, arms folded across his chest in open defiance and the expression on his face just inviting Gabon to push his luck.

"Then I demand a compromise at the very least," Gabon persisted, pulling a clean sheet from a nearby bed and tearing it into wide strips before distributing one to each of the men. "Whilst you remain in this room, you will wear this over your nose and mouth to minimise breathing in any possibly noxious vapours from the patient. Of course, it may be too late for such a precaution but we may as well make the attempt."

There was plenty of grumbling but they did agree eventually.

"Makes me look an' feel like a bandit," Porthos complained, his voice slightly muffled by the material, but still did as he was bidden.

Aramis was concerned. "We will frighten Athos to death if he sees us wearing these," and then he realised what he had said and an embarrassed flush coloured his olive skin.

"We know what you mean," Trėville said, attempting to diffuse the tension that had noticeably risen in the room with the physician's directive. Looking at Athos, it was clear that he was not taking any notice of what was going on around him. "If you are that worried, Aramis, we will leave it to your discretion as to how to explain things to him when he is fully awake."

The sick musketeer was drifting in and out of wakefulness despite the continued shivering.

Towards the end of the fourth hour, some semblance of peace and quiet descended upon the infirmary. The books arrived for Gabon, two weighty tomes in size, leather bindings and content, and he poured over them with deep concentration and in stark contrast to the musketeer officer, who joined him in taking up position at the table usually used for treatment. The Captain had sent for paperwork and quills from his desk and was trying to immerse himself in the mundane and rudimentary tasks of running the garrison; he had tried to deal with a more important missive but had to admit defeat when he spoiled several sheets of paper with crossings out and then pressed down too hard upon the quill pen so that it split suddenly and spat ink back at him in a gesture of mild insubordination. Having cleaned himself and the table as best he could, he settled to repeating an order for stores, for little had changed over a week so that he did not have to think too hard. His repeated sighs, harrumphs and irritated heavy scratchings on the paper were the best indicators that his heart was not truly in his work and he repeatedly cast distracted glances towards Athos and where Aramis continued to sit by him on the floor.

Having requested paper and quill for himself, Gabon turned the thick vellum pages of the texts and set about making copious notes, the ink filling the pages in a large but neat, forward-sloping, cursive hand. Even this was totally unlike the writing style of the Captain for the soldier had a hasty scrawl, testament to the many demands upon his time during any day. Athos himself had been heard to describe it as being like a drunken spider that had fallen into the ink bottle, clambered out and staggered across the page with interesting and often barely legible results.

Food was brought for the group and Serge listened worriedly as Trėville furnished him with a stream of further instructions appertaining to those incarcerated within the infirmary and the others in the garrison at large. Aramis eventually insisted that Porthos and d'Artagnan retire to the adjacent room to rest by stretching out on the cots there, even if they could not actually sleep and he had dispatched them there with food when Gabon, pressed yet again for information, re-iterated his devastating news. In short, if Athos was infected with what he suspected, the next stage of symptoms, if they did not kill him swiftly, would be such that he would need a lot of care and support over the ensuing hours.

Reluctant as they were to leave the main room, Aramis assured them that they were within an easy call if needed and that there was little to be gained by them all crowding into the one area. The Captain and the physician were about their business, Athos remained in a restless slumber and did not need much tending and, if truth be told, the patience of both Aramis and Trėville was being sorely tested by d'Artagnan's failure to sit still. His constant pacing with sudden interjections about how he should have realised something was wrong sooner – despite the others all pointing out to him that there was absolutely nothing he could have done to prevent the situation – and Porthos' efforts to occupy himself by carving a pattern into the seat of a stool, making an error and cursing first himself, then the stool, then the self-imposed isolation in the infirmary followed by all the people who could be held remotely responsible for making Athos ill, all served to try the patience of a saint. That was a nomenclature that could not be attributed to either Trėville or Aramis at this juncture and when the Captain finally snapped and threatened both of them with a month of mucking out stables if they did not keep quiet, they conceded and headed to the other room.

Gabon, amused by the interaction between the men, continued to work in silence for some time until he sat back in his chair, laid his quill very carefully down upon his notes and pinched the bridge of his nose with tiredness. Both Trėville and Aramis sensed that something of great import was about to be shared and leaned forward, mentally preparing themselves for what they were about to hear.

"I would ask d'Artagnan a few more questions if you would be so kind." The old physician looked directly towards Aramis, his implication clear – he wanted the musketeer to summon the young man.

Obligingly, Aramis called to d'Artagnan but made him stand in the doorway whilst he listened and responded as far as he could to the searching inquiries of Gabon.

Now mid-September, the area in Picardy through which they had ridden had been subjected to violent summer storms which had resulted in torrential rain and substantial flooding along both major and minor river banks. This was for the second successive year and harvests had been adversely affected on both occasions; although the local populace might face some hardship through the coming winter and did not have much spare produce to sell at market, it was not to the extent that they were in danger of starvation.

As they travelled, the two musketeers had been aware of increased insect activity but, no, he had not been bitten – it was something from which he had not suffered when on his father's farm – and he did not recall either hearing Athos speak of the same nor had he seen him scratching at a bite. That was not to say that it might not have occurred. At this point in the proceedings, Aramis gingerly tried to examine Athos for any tell-tale spots that might indicate an insect bite but the sick musketeer had not been very co-operative and so Aramis had abandoned the search.

There also seemed to be a greater number of vermin in the area and they had been troubled with rats and voles when they had camped on their last night. Gabon had then wanted to know about their bedding and where they had stretched out upon the ground.

Bemused as he might have been about the range of questions and their apparent disjointedness, d'Artagnan continued to provide information, remembering the words of the Captain when he had urged full disclosure of information, no matter how irrelevant the content might seem. Gabon seemed content with his answers and continued to make extensive notation on his papers.

Tréville had listened quietly enough to both questions and answers whilst watching the physician very carefully and now he spoke, the authority in his voice clear. "Enough of the procrastination, Sir. You have your suspicions and I would have you give them voice for _I_ suspect that you have long been convinced of your diagnosis. I want to know what is wrong with my man, what we are facing and what the risk is to my regiment and, potentially, Paris."

Gabon looked from one to the other of the men and saw the same resolute expression on each face. "I would have preferred to wait for the next symptoms but if you insist …"

"I do." Tréville would brook no more nonsense.

"Sudor Anglicus," Gabon announced and realised, from their rapidly shared glances, that they were none the wiser.

"The English sweating sickness," he translated.

Tréville and Aramis frowned as Porthos spoke up. "English? Can't be. Athos has never been there."

Gabon took a deep breath. "Whilst the first epidemics were all confined to England, the fourth one did spread to mainland Europe in 1528 culminating in the deaths of thousands. The only part of France affected at that time was the Calais region. The last major outbreak of the disease in England was in 1551 and I have here an eyewitness account of an eminent physician of the time, Joh Caius." His hand lightly grazed the volume. "It is a fascinating read as is this other treatise, ' _Tractatus contra pestilentiam thenasmonen et dissinteriam_ '."

Aramis tried to do a rapid translation of the Latin in his head to explain to the Captain as he began to sense that the officer's temper was wearing exceedingly thin. It seemed, all of a sudden, as if a war of words and temperament was beginning between the physician and the Captain as the former did not appreciate being ordered to divulge his thoughts before he was ready.

"Thomas Forestier was a French doctor originally based in England," Gabon explained, demonstrating his knowledge. "When he returned to France, he wrote about the first recorded epidemic of 1485, providing information on its impact and appearance during this initial outbreak. He wrote it in English and Latin, observing its rapidity and violence. These men, both knowledgeable in their time and observers of this sickness, list symptoms that Athos has displayed.:

He took a deep breath before he began to outline what these men were to face with their friend if the supposition was correct. "He has suffered from the chills for a while; any time now the sweat will begin. That, the accompanying fever and delirium will probably be worse than much that you have encountered before. He will struggle with breathing, panting for breath; victims have been described as drowning in their lungs. Then there will be the palpitations and the pain around his heart. He will have a prodigious thirst and be in a state of collapse, desperate to sleep, but the books advise against that. You must try to keep him awake. In short, it will not be pleasant, gentlemen. He will be fighting for his life."

Silence fell in the room as the musketeers absorbed his words. Porthos could not help but feel that it had been better when they did not know what might happen. Brave warrior he might be but to be forced to sit and watch a brother possibly die and be helpless to do anything about it made him angry, impotent. He would do all he could to ease Athos' suffering. D'Artagnan sank into a miserable reverie as he struggled to come to terms with what the physician had said.

"You said there was no cure," Aramis broke the silence. "Surely some people survived its effects."

"Yes they did," Gabon continued, giving them the first ray of hope. "Many died as swiftly as within the first three hours; he has already exceeded that. The first twelve hours are critical; every hour he survives beyond that increases his chances and if he lives through twenty-four, he will recover."

"Right then," said Porthos with renewed optimism, "we just have to persuade him to live through the next twenty or so hours." He looked at his brothers. "Where's the difficulty in that?" The apparent blasé attitude drew at least a smile from the other men.

Aramis shrugged, "No difficulty at all. We've faced worse odds."

"Glad I was never with you then," d'Artagnan quipped. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Can we reduce the fever by giving him a cold bath or something?"

Gabon shook his head. "That would probably kill him even more quickly with shock for there are things going on with the heart that we really do not know about. It would be too great a risk."

"What about sheets soaked in cold water?" Tréville asked, determined that they would at least prepare for what was to come, rather than to sit there doing nothing.

"It is possible but I would certainly recommend simply washing him down with cool cloths in the first instance and see how he responds to that," Gabon replied.

As one, they looked at the sick musketeer and it was d'Artagnan who, frowning, went over to check upon his well-being. He had been silent and still for a while, none of them having noticed when the intense shivering had ceased. Now he had made a weak attempt to push the blankets down his body as far as he could reach.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan softly called.

All three of the other musketeers moved to stand beside Athos, alerted by the hitch in the young man's voice.

"He did not have that flush to his face before," Tréville noted.

Aramis reached down, the back of his hand feeling his brother's brow, cheek and then his neck before he straightened up, alarmed. "He is so hot to the touch; he has a fever."

"So," began Gabon from behind them, gaining their attention, "the final stage of symptoms has begun."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **As well as the Latin treatise mentioned above, Forestier also wrote a version in English:**_ _ **'Treatise on the venyms fever of pestilens'.**_

 _ **John Caius' English eye-witness account of the 1551 epidemic was called '**_ _ **A Boke or Counseill Against the Disease Commonly Called the Sweate, or Sweatyng Sicknesse**_ _ **.'**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Thank you for your continued support and responses. I have not chosen an easy subject for so many reasons, not least because so little is known for certain. Sad person that I am, I found a thin ebook on the 'Sweating Sickness' on Saturday, bought it, downloaded it and have read it! Much of it I already knew from research so far but there were some interesting and somewhat contradictory points from various writings about how infection could be avoided and what limited things could be done to help the sick fight it. I hope that I have brought out those conundrums here.**_

 _ **So, in this chapter, time races on, tempers fray, Aramis puts his foot down, d'Artagnan is the optimist, Porthos makes threatening noises and Tréville becomes protective! (And poor Athos carries on fighting!)**_

THE FIFTH HOUR ONWARDS

"Well at least 'e isn't purgin' Athos or doin' any blood-lettin'," Porthos said, nodding in Gabon's direction as the old man reappeared from the store room carrying two more bowls of herbal concoctions that he had mixed, having first sent out for the purchase of rose water, the delicately fragranced liquid not being something that a garrison of men usually kept. He set the bowls on different surfaces before going back from where he came.

"If he had suggested it, I would have fought him every step of the way; literally, if I had to! Athos has not the strength to expend on either if he is to survive this sickness," Aramis answered as he patiently attempted once more to stop Athos from kicking off the sheet and blanket – they had already removed two of the blankets. "Athos, I swear, if you try that again, I will tie you up in this bedding."

Porthos moved to help, holding Athos' arms still as Aramis covered him up yet again.

"Don't see how this keepin' him covered up is goin' to help. He's burnin' up as it is; 'e doesn't need any more layers. He's jus' fightin' us the whole time tryin' to get rid of 'em which is enough to make 'im even hotter," Porthos grumbled and caught at the bare foot that suddenly appeared from the side of the cot as Athos sought any relief for any part of his overheated body from cool air. "Don't know who's goin' to wear out first, him or us at this rate. Athos!" he remonstrated as the swordsman managed to free an arm and flung it sideways, just missing the musketeer's nose.

"He doesn't know what he is doing," Aramis was reminding himself as much as Porthos. "You heard what Gabon said from what he's read. People were reported as throwing off their bedclothes and running through the streets of London to find any relief from the fever. Isn't that exactly what Athos is trying to do?"

"Gettin' rid of the beddin' maybe, an' he keeps tryin' to pull his braies off but I don't see 'im as 'avin' the strength to run anywhere now an' certainly not through the streets of Paris, London or anywhere else you fancy."

"He seems to have enough to give _us_ the run around though," Aramis quipped with a vague smile as he caught at Athos' hands scrabbling with the bedding again.

"If he's burning up with a fever, I don't see why I should have to light this fire; it's not exactly cold in here anyway," d'Artagnan complained as he crouched in front of the small fireplace in the infirmary and finished setting the materials to burn.

"Not too much now," Aramis warned. "Gabon is not wanting a huge blaze; the intention is not to warm the room."

D'Artagnan turned and cast a withering look over his shoulder at his two friends. "That's my point. Why have a fire if you don't want the room warmed? That's what fire does. Besides, we wouldn't need a fire if that window was closed," and he nodded to the one farthest from the sick musketeer.

"A fire dries the moisture in the air," Gabon said as if that explained everything as he reappeared with rapidly tied posies of herbs and distributed them to the men. "We also need to keep the air as clean and pure as possible for us, so we must let fresh air in as another method of avoiding the contagion."

Tréville emerged from the adjacent room, arms piled high with pillows, his eyes bulging as Gabon set a posy between his teeth. He had let the torn sheeting slip from his mouth and nose and it now hung loosely around his neck. Dropping the pillows onto the nearest cot where he had already gathered those from the room they were in, he retrieved the posy.

"What's this for?" he demanded, ready with some dismissive rejoinder if he did not like what he heard.

"Just one of the suggestions made in my extensive reading for the protection of those caring for the ill and not wanting to succumb to the sickness, which you will quickly do," Gabon scolded, "if you do not cover up your mouth and nose again. Keep those herbs in a kerchief and hold it to your nose as often as possible."

Sighing very audibly, Tréville did as he was told.

"It's not very practical when you need both 'ands for somethin' else," Porthos pointed out, laying it on the floor beside the bed as Athos succeeded in breaking free from the bedding and attempted to sit up. "Come on, Athos, you stay there and get some rest. It says in Monsieur Gabon's book that those who survived this thing did so because they took to their beds straight off and lay still. You're not exactly helpin' yourself or us."

"Now," Gabon continued, "you will each take it in turns to get some fresh air. You may stand outside for a while but are not permitted to communicate with anyone else. Is that clear?" He waited for an affirmative nod from each of the four men. "You may want to send for clean, dry clothing that you can change into at frequent intervals …."

"How much spare clothing do you think I have?" interrupted d'Artagnan.

Gabon ignored him, "and you will wash your faces and hands in rose water whenever you have been near the patient. A message must be sent to your cook, Captain. He is not to send in anymore meat and no wine, only weak ale."

Thankfully, Porthos was so alarmed at the prospect that it rendered him speechless.

Tréville took a deep breath before speaking through gritted teeth. "And this will help how?"

Gabon had the goodness to look sheepish. "I really do not know, Captain. I am going from what the books tell me."

"Those same books that are eighty years old or more?" Tréville pressed.

"People survived this and I am only going by what they were saying they did at the time or suggested. They saw it first hand, we have not had that opportunity until now when this poor soul fell ill," Gabon persisted as he indicated Athos who tossed feverishly in his damp bedding.

"So you don't really know anythin' about what worked and what didn't," Porthos stated.

"I wouldn't say that," Gabon said defensively.

"I would," muttered d'Artagnan from his place by the fire as the flames began to take hold of the pieces of wood he had placed there. The resultant heat could be felt by each of the men where they stood. They had already removed their leather doublets during the preceding hour and voluminous linen shirts were beginning to cling to their muscular frames in the temperature in the room rose.

"I am not going to fight Athos anymore," Aramis declared tetchily. "We have done everything you have asked of us but he grows steadily worse. He is very uncomfortable so we will strip him to make it easier to wipe the sweat off him."

"But you must keep him covered," Gabon insisted.

"I will, with a sheet and then a blanket if he can stand it but I will not have him lying there in sweat-sodden clothing."

"And you must use tepid water, not cold. The shock could prove too much," Gabon insisted.

"I understand," Aramis began.

"And to drink. Do not try to put cold liquids into his stomach. One book says he should not drink for five hours at least and then that it should be sugared ale," Gabon could sense a mutiny on his hands.

"Light a fire, open a window; keep him covered, add blankets, but not too many to suffocate 'im; let 'im drink as he's thirsty and sweating out the moisture in his body but it 'as to be warm or sickly sweet ale, but then don't let him drink at all; provoke more sweating if he's not doin' it enough already; keep 'im awake when all 'e wants to do is sleep. We all know sleep is the best thing when you're sick or injured. Seems with this sickness, no-one knows anythin' for sure; you do one thing but you also 'ave to do the opposite because whichever one you do will probably speed up 'is passin'," Porthos' frustration was evident and his mounting vexation was seen mirrored in the ferocious nods of agreement that Tréville and d'Artagnan gave.

Aramis' face darkened and, once he started his protestations, he was resolute. "Much of this sounds like nothing more than contradictory superstition. You have told me to make him lie still with his arms crossed over his chest and not to let the air get to his armpits. What would that do? We have tried keeping him still but he is in no state to listen to us, understand or obey; all he knows and cares about is that his body feels as though it is on fire. Then you said we had to keep him covered and gradually increase those coverings." He punctuated his words with gestures back towards his stricken brother. "He is restless, tossing and turning because he is burning up and the sweat is pouring off him already; he is struggling because he can't stand to be covered. He is desperate for some kind of relief and we are not giving it.

"I believe you when you say the worst is yet to come – his breathing is not obviously affected as yet - but I have to do something _now_ to help his suffering and give him a fighting chance. I have listened to what you advocate and there may be sense to some of it; I will weigh that up and God forgive me if I get it wrong but whilst he is agitated, I will not add to his distress by fighting him and holding him down just so that I can keep a blanket on him. There is one window open and he is not in any draught for we have made sure of that; it is stifling for us in here so it must be a hell on earth for him. I will do _anything_ to bring him some comfort, even if it is only temporary."

They may not have even realised that they were doing it but the four musketeers – Tréville included - moved closer together, effectively creating a physical barrier between Gabon and Athos. The old physician noticed it though and could not fail to marvel at the bond between these men.

"I have told you all that I know," Gabon said, his voice softer.

"We understand, we really do," Tréville reassured him, "and we are grateful for your help but it seems that so little is known for certain. This sweating sickness has not been seen for so long and then mainly in England. You said yourself, it only touched France once. Why should Athos have it now? Where can he possibly have caught it? Supposing it is merely something like it?"

"Suppose you've been frightenin' us silly by saying Athos is going to die an' it's not what you say at all?" Porthos took up the questions, a belligerent tone creeping into his voice.

"And supposing I am right? Are you prepared to take the risk with your friend's life?" Gabon shot back. "Supposing that this is the first step in a development, a change in the sweating sickness? What if it can no longer be designated an ailment of the English?

There was an awkward silence as Gabon struggled to maintain some air of authority over the treatment and the musketeers became obstinate in wanting to do what they thought was the best in the circumstances.

"Perhaps we could compromise," Aramis offered, in an attempt to placate everyone.

So they compromised, or rather Gabon did, but that was more because he felt the intimidating presence of the four musketeers.

D'Artagnan maintained a low fire in the hearth and heated pans of water before it so that the liquid was tepid and no more. On Gabon's instructions, the blankets that had previously been taken from the bed were put into a large tub of scalding water placed outside the main door by Serge; the musketeers could hear him pounding them with a large wooden pole for many minutes as he sought to clean them.

Next they turned their attention to Athos himself, divesting him of his braies for the thick material was damp with sweat and clinging to his body. Porthos had the task of manipulating leaden, unresponsive limbs as Aramis peeled away the garment and then set about wiping Athos down with the water d'Artagnan had warmed, too fearful to begin with anything cold. As he worked methodically down the torso, arms and legs, he patted dry the hot skin before turning his attention to Athos' face, bathing it gently and stroking back the moist curls that were already adhering to his forehead and cheeks.

Not fully cognisant, Athos moaned repeatedly as they moved him as carefully as they could and with the minimum of fuss, the pair of them 'shushing' him fondly as they settled him back onto the pillows. The cots in the infirmary were usually restricted to one each but Tréville had already placed a second beneath his head. Aramis covered the naked form with a sheet, anticipating that the thinness of the material would suffice and kept a single blanket nearby.

And so the pattern of care began. It was loving, committed, gentle and unrelenting as the four musketeers took on the conflict, fighting for and with Athos against the terrible disease that sought to destroy him.

Whilst d'Artagnan had the additional responsibility of maintaining a cool compress on Athos' brow, Tréville and Aramis wiped his body with refreshing water and dried him before Porthos raised him up into a half-sitting position and held him for Aramis to endeavour to spoon first lukewarm water and then the sweetened ale past his lips and persuade him to drink. He was not too impressed by the ale but Porthos and Aramis were persistent. As eager as he was for water in the early stages – and Gabon had warned of a prodigious thirst – Athos would have gulped greedily at the liquid but they would not let him, fearful that he would become sick. Later, he seemed to have forgotten how to swallow or else grew too weak to do so without the simplest encouragement, namely Aramis holding his jaw shut with one hand whilst applying light pressure when stroking his throat with the other.

Early evening, the table was strewn with dishes – none containing meat – that Serge had delivered. Tréville and Gabon had eaten first and then relieved Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos so that the three friends sat together for their evening meal.

"It's gone seven," Porthos suddenly announced. "How many hours is it now?"

They knew, without elaboration, that he referred to the length of time that Athos had been ill.

"You got to the garrison after the noon bells had been rung at the cathedral," Aramis said to d'Artagnan.

"And Athos had not been himself for about an hour before then," the young musketeer added.

"About eight hours then," Porthos calculated with a sigh.

"Many died in the first three hours; he has long passed that," Aramis said encouragingly.

"And he's getting closer to the twelve-hour mark," d'Artagnan tried to continue the optimism. "Gabon said that the longer he went past that point, the better his chances."

"That's another four hours away an' he's not really safe until twenty-four have gone by," Porthos reminded them grimly, "He hasn't even got to the worst part yet."

"Perhaps he won't," d'Artagnan said hopefully. "Maybe Gabon is wrong and this is not the sweating sickness but just something like it."

Suddenly Athos emitted a distressed cry and the three at the table jumped to their feet as Tréville rounded on Gabon.

"What did you just do?" he demanded, his face like thunder.

"I only pinched him to wake him up," Gabon explained.

"What?" Porthos was already on the move but d'Artagnan caught his arm and held him back.

"He seemed to have fallen asleep and he needed to be awakened," Gabon went on, watchful as Aramis drew near the bed, pushed between him and the Captain and sank into a crouch beside Athos. The pinch mark left by Gabon's fingers was visible, an angry red, and a tear of pained surprise tracked its way down the sick man's cheek as he twisted fitfully. Aramis wiped the tear away with his thumb and muttered gentle words as he tried to calm his agitated friend.

"Don't you ever do something like that again!" Tréville ordered.

"Or what, Captain?" Gabon challenged. "I am here trying to look after this patient but I am thwarted at every turn by you and your men who are not willing to accept my diagnosis or suggestions. I have brought with me learned books that say he must not be allowed to sleep so, when he does just that, he must be woken up again. I am sorry if you did not like the method I chose and am open to other ideas."

"Then we will provide them," Tréville ground out, his left hand subconsciously reaching down until it made contact with the sweat-soaked curls and lay there protectively. "This boy is fighting for his life and you will not add to his misery with your heavy-handed answer to treatment, even if it does come from your so-called 'learned' books. You will give him the utmost care and respect. Aramis," Tréville still did not glance down, his intense glare remaining fixed upon the older man, "how is he?"

"Settling," Aramis answered, stroking Athos' cheek to soothe him. "His arm looks as if it will bruise though."

Porthos gave a sound reminiscent of a warning growl. "Don't you ever try nothing like that again. We'll keep 'im awake from here on in."

Tréville chose that moment to glance down at the sick musketeer. Athos' eyes were heavy, little more than slits, and he was increasingly unresponsive. D'Artagnan joined them with a bowl of tepid water which he set down beside Aramis who took up a cloth, soaked it, wrung it out and began anew his task of wiping down the skin that boasted a fine sheet of sweat. Athos did not react to the touch and Tréville could not help but wonder about their chances of keeping him awake for very much longer.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **In 1517, the papal nuncio advised that it was fatal to take any cold beverage. Air was not to penetrate garments or bedclothes, a 'moderate' fire in the bedchamber was needed, arms were to be crossed on the patient's breast and care taken so that air did not reach the arm-pits! To neglect any of these meant immediate death apparently!**_

 _ **Polydore Vergil, an Italian humanist scholar, wrote 'Anglica Historica' and said folk were unable to bear the heat, removing bed clothes and/or clothes.**_

 _ **Chronicler John Harding said people threw off bedclothes and ran through London streets trying to find relief from fevers.**_

 _ **Forrestier (found two spellings of his name now – r/rr) said people dropped dead in the street, the onset of the sickness was that rapid. He cited several examples.**_

 _ **I so wanted Tréville (who is definitely not happy with Gabon) to use a term like 'hocus-pocus' for Gabon's methods which is early 17**_ _ **th**_ _ **century but the first known use was 1634 – just too late! 'Mumbo jumbo' was even later in the 1700s. He is not convinced by Gabon's information but what can they do?**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Evening, dear all. I have written much of this in a hurry as I desperately wanted to upload something for you all today. I have done two checks but am sorry if some errors have slipped through. Athos worsens in this chapter and the others are beside themselves with worry. Thank you for all the wonderful responses.**_

THE NINTH HOUR

The battle had begun in earnest and the men really did not know how best to fight it. Spirits were flagging as they became consumed with worry and fear; conscious, more than ever before, of the reality of the potentially fatal outcome when they were witness to Athos' rapid deterioration, they tried desperately to encourage themselves and each other.

Initially, d'Artagnan took it upon himself to keep Athos awake, sitting beside the cot engrossed in a very one-sided conversation as he regaled him with the minutiae of garrison life – as if the sick musketeer were unfamiliar with such a thing. Serge's complaints about washing blankets, sweat-soaked sheets and having to furnish them all with an alternative meat-free diet were repeated verbatim. He told him in detail the finer points of Gabon's instructions and the history that lay behind the tomes for he was sure that Athos would find that fascinating, given his usual interest in such subjects. As time wore on and d'Artagnan exhausted his supply of tales, Aramis was sure that he began to invent incidents about their colleagues, including one Delacroix, with whom Athos had an ongoing rancorous relationship.

Listening carefully, Aramis could not help but wonder if d'Artagnan were not mentioning the other musketeer deliberately in the hope of eliciting some sort of response from Athos. The disappointment in the young man was clear when Athos continued to ignore him. It was not their sick brother's fault as he tossed fitfully in his bed, eyes semi-closed and absorbed with murmuring to someone unseen of things unknown to anyone else but him.

"The boy has determination," Gabon observed to Tréville as d'Artagnan launched into a flagging tale of the problems the stable boy had been having with brushing knots out of horses' manes – another subject of total invention, or so Aramis thought.

Tréville gave a wan smile. "He will do anything for Athos."

Gabon looked around the room to where the other two busied themselves with preparing fresh sheets to change the cot for a second time and another container of warmed water to begin the whole process once more of washing Athos down. "I rather get the impression that they all will do anything for this young man – yourself included. I cannot think of too many leaders who would have put themselves in this position."

"I was given to understand that I had no choice," Tréville said softly, no trace of resentment in his tone as he referred to the isolation Gabon had inflicted upon all of them.

Gabon spread wide his hands in acceptance. "Granted we are here to minimise risk of spreading infection to the garrison but you had the chance to remove yourself into the other room, yet you did not. I am intrigued. These men are special?"

It was a definite question rather than a mere statement and Tréville could almost hear Gabon's unspoken words. " _To you?"_

The Captain thought carefully before he answered. "My regiment is unique. They are the King's men; commissions are greatly sought after and hard won. Each man has a talent and some a veritable gift." He eyed the four musketeers in the room and dropped his voice even lower, not wanting them to hear what he was about to admit. "These men take that uniqueness to a higher level. As their commanding officer, I am not supposed to have favourites but yes, this quartet is special. They are not without their faults, each and every one of them; they have their moods and their problems. They make their mistakes and many is the time when their antics drive me to distraction but, when it comes to their work as musketeers, their abilities are second to none; their loyalty to the regiment, me, their King and country cannot be questioned. Each of them has a value to this regiment that is beyond measure; put them together as a unit and they are beyond comparison. I am not sure whether it is the reason for their compatibility or the result of it but between them is a bond of comradeship and brotherhood that is rare."

A heavy silence descended upon them and Gabon weighed what he had heard.

"So if Athos were to die of this disease ...?" He left the question unfinished.

Tréville looked at him sharply. "I dare not even begin to think what it would do to them. Yes, they would mourn, pick up the pieces of their lives and work as they have always done but it would never be the same; I do not believe that somehow _they_ would ever be the same. A huge part of them would be missing."

"And what of you if he did not survive?"

The question was too pointed, too personal. Tréville cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable. "I have lost men before; many good ones. It is one of the less than pleasant events that comes with the responsibility of being a captain."

"That is not what I asked."

"They are all soldiers. They know from the moment they join the regiment that they could lose their lives. If they are not ready to make that sacrifice, then there is no point in being the King's man," Tréville said matter-of-factly.

"Is that a rehearsed answer, Captain? The reason you readily give yourself? It may be more acceptable on a field of battle but what about when it is a potentially deadly disease following a routine task and happens to one of these four?" Gabon pressed.

Tréville's eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to do, Gabon? Seeing if I am holding up under the pressure of being confined within these four walls?"

"Not at all, Captain. I apologise for angering you but I have spent many hours now watching the interaction in this room and it is not just between your men and their sick comrade; it involves you just as much and I am fascinated for I have never seen the like."

"You think I am too involved? That I should stand back and not care about what happens to my men, any of them?" Tréville hissed, not sure where the conversation was really going.

"Of course not. It is refreshing; human. There are too many military leaders who do not appear to have any thought or care for their men; they lead through intransigence and terror. You strike me as one who has the loyalty of these men and the rest of the garrison because they see you as being fair and loyal to them. You lead, guide, teach and care for them – a father-figure, no less." He eyed Tréville shrewdly. "It is therefore no surprise that you would feel any loss like a father. After all, you have taken an active part in the tending of this young man."

"Because it is demanding and exhausting. The more help there is, the easier it will be for all of us, not least Athos himself," Tréville reasoned.

Gabon raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You demand too much of me. What do you want me to say, Gabon? That, like d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos, I cannot even begin to think on the possibility of Athos dying and refuse to consider it? That I see that eventuality as being the biggest waste of life and talent that I expect I shall ever witness? Do I fear his dying before this night is out? Absolutely! Would I mourn his passing more than almost everybody I have known and lost? Undoubtedly! There, Gabon, I have said it. Are you satisfied?"

A silence shrouded them now like a pall and was only broken by the disturbance at the bedside.

D'Artagnan jumped to his feet, his stool falling over with a thud as he threw up his hands despairingly. "You must not go to sleep, Athos. How many more times do we have to tell you?" A catch in his voice betrayed the overwhelming emotion he was feeling and it was Aramis who took him by the arm and led him to the next cot where he sat him down, laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke soothingly to him.

"Looks like it's you and me now then, Athos," Porthos announced loudly, interweaving his fingers and stretching out his arms so that a business-like bone-cracking was heard.

"What are you going to do?" Aramis asked as Porthos pulled back the bedding to expose Athos in all his nakedness.

They had all sent for at least one change of clothing when Gabon had suggested it and now, Porthos grabbed and shook out one of his own shirts. He wasted no time in sitting Athos up to drape the shirt over his head and work the limp arms through the sleeves. With one arm around Athos' waist, he manoeuvred his legs over the side of the bed, the bare feet dangling uselessly above the boards.

"Porthos?" Aramis' eyes widened in alarm as Porthos shifted Athos to the edge of the cot so that his feet now made contact with the floor.

"Me and Athos here are going for a little walk, aren't we?" He did not seem surprised when Athos did not answer, his head having lolled forward onto his chest.

"You can't …" Aramis began, stepping forward with a sense of urgency.

"Can't what?" Porthos snapped as he pulled Athos' right arm around his neck and hauled him to his feet. "We have to keep him awake. D'Artagnan's had his go and now it's my turn so we are going to have a walk. Now you an' I know we're only goin' round an' round the table but him and me, we're goin' to pretend it's the meadow outside Paris an' we're headin' down to the river. Isn't that right, Athos?"

Athos was mumbling but there was no evidence that he was directly responding to Porthos.

"Maybe you can help by pullin' my shirt down on him properly; save his blushes," Porthos insisted and waited as Aramis re-arranged the shirt that, voluminous on Porthos' big frame, swamped the shorter, leaner musketeer. If the situation had not been so serious, it would have raised a laugh in its preposterousness. "Come on now, Athos. Best foot forward."

To Aramis' surprise, Athos stumbled forward a few paces beside Porthos, his head rolling and his left arm limp at his side. It was clear to everyone present that it was only Porthos keeping him upright; if he chose to relinquish his hold, Athos would collapse to the floor like a stuffing-less rag doll.

As they walked – or rather, Porthos walked and largely carried Athos at his side – the big musketeer kept up a running commentary on the sky, clouds, the smell of the pasture's long grass, birds and buzzing insects, the racing river water and the colours of the wild flowers along its banks.

They managed several circuits of the table but before then Athos had ceased any shuffling he had briefly succeeded in achieving. His eyes were closed, the long lashes edged in droplets that could have been either tears or the sweat that poured from him. Aramis intervened and stood in their way so that they could not circumnavigate the table again.

"Porthos, let him rest," he said softly and took a sharp intake of breath as he saw Porthos' eyes well up.

"He has to stay awake," Porthos explained, his voice surprisingly small for a man of his build and pained.

"Look at him, Porthos," Aramis urged, holding and supporting Athos' head in his hands. "He is barely conscious. We have to get him back into bed and bathe him. He would be disgusted with himself if he knew how badly he smelt right now." Gabon's books had spoken of the sweat smelling foully and there was no denying the stench that now rolled off Athos, especially after his enforced exercise. "Then we'll change the bed again and perhaps he will be a little more comfortable."

Porthos seemed to think about this for a moment and, suddenly reaching down, he swept Athos up in his arms and carried the limp figure with ease back to the bed. He knew, from the dead weight he carried, the looseness of the limbs and the way the head fell back over his arm, that Athos' tentative hold on wakefulness had all but gone. Swiftly, he removed his shirt from the still form and threw it in a damp heap across the room before sitting on the cot, his back to the wall as Athos lay in a semi-seated position against his chest.

Aramis began the slow process of wiping down the figure and drying him as he went but it was soon apparent that as fast as he did this, another film of sweat coated Athos' body again.

"I didn't reckon anyone was capable of makin' the heat that's comin' off him now. He's wettin' the shirt I'm wearin'," Porthos said, his worried eyes fixed on Aramis over Athos' head. Admittedly uncomfortable, he was careful not to sound as though he were complaining.

Aramis had settled on the edge of the cot facing them. "Give him to me for a while; perhaps you could wipe down his back, try to cool him that way. We have neglected that part of him," and he held out his arms in readiness to receive his sick friend as Porthos leaned Athos forward and into his embrace. Athos' head rested on his shoulder and he tried to ignore both the sweat-soaked hair against his cheek and the frightening level of heat that emanated from the swordsman.

Porthos worked in silence and then a frown creased his brow. He stopped. "What the …..?"

"What is it? What's the matter?" Aramis demanded.

Porthos checked the smooth skin of his friend's back again. "He's got a rash and it's all down his back."

Aramis held Athos steady and tried to peer round to see what Porthos had noticed. There was no difficulty; the rash was widespread. Laying Athos back against Porthos, Aramis began closely inspecting other parts of the musketeer's body with a sense of urgency that drew the other men into a ring around the bed.

"If you didn't have so much dark chest hair, my friend, we might have noticed this before," Aramis grumbled. He looked in turn at the men around him. "It's on his neck, chest and going down his arms but his legs are clear. You never mentioned a rash." This last comment he directed towards Gabon.

The physician inched closer, keen to peruse the rash, and speaking as he did so. "There was no significant reference to a rash in the English sweating sickness. A couple of brief mentions were all it seemed to warrant. It was either witnessed so infrequently or many people died before it was able to manifest itself."

"So what does it mean?" d'Artagnan asked as he looked at Athos lying against Porthos, his head turning from side to side repeatedly and his features contorted in some unseen discomfort, his breathing more of a rasp.

"I do not know for certain," Gabon admitted, "but I fear that the time may be running out for your friend."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Okay, this chapter ran away a little from the plan and me! As the strain in caring for Athos begins to take its toll on all of them, the conversation at the end started me on a slightly different path so I have chosen deliberately to conclude it where I have for now.**_

 _ **Many thanks for all the wonderful comments and to all you lovely people who have followed and made the story a favourite. It is, as ever, a joy and such encouragement to hear from you and know that so many of you deem the story worthy of reading. Thank you!**_

THE TENTH HOUR

Towards the end of the tenth hour – eleven since Athos had first displayed any symptoms – the crisis hit.

Initially, as the time crept towards what the group had designated the first marker – twelve hours – they had been lulled into a false sense of security when Athos did not appear to develop anything beyond the rash which, because it had not featured prominently in any of the written eye-witness descriptions, meant that the musketeers had begun to convince themselves that Gabon had unfortunately misdiagnosed the illness, as severe as it was.

They decided that it could _not_ be the English sweating sickness because of the appearance of the rash and therefore Athos was no longer at risk of dying. He had survived long after many others were known to have died and almost reached the twelve-hour hurdle and so they dared to hope that he was consequently safe.

Gabon had described what the final stage of symptoms involved and, when they had feared the worst, they had each tried to imagine what it would be like, dreading its onset. Nothing, then, could have prepared them for what it was like in reality, when they had to accept that the illness had not fully worked its course and eventually unleashed its final force.

Porthos was beside himself with guilt, convinced that his insistence on taking Athos for a 'walk' in a vain attempt to keep him awake had accelerated the process and no amount of reassuring him otherwise would ease his tortured soul. As far as he was concerned, he had condemned his brother to an unmitigated nightmare. Gabon asserted that the development of symptoms was inevitable, for that was the way of the sweating sickness. Tréville tried his best to keep up Porthos' spirits by re-affirming what the physician was claiming but feared that his encouragement was falling on deaf ears, for the big musketeer sat on a chair a little distance from the bed, categorically refused to take any more of an active role in the nursing and simply watched his weakening brother with eyes filled with abject misery. Aramis was faring no better at rousing him from his depression but then he was, as a result of Porthos' irrational decision, focused solely on trying to help Athos as best he could. D'Artagnan, meanwhile, sat mutely, his face a mask of burgeoning horror and helplessness.

Earlier, Porthos had cradled Athos as if he were a delicate child whilst d'Artagnan and Aramis changed the sheets for a third time. They used many of the pillows that Tréville had gathered, piling them up behind Athos when they settled him once more so that he was almost sitting upright as he reclined against them. Porthos had deposited on another bed a number of clean sheets that he had found in readiness but was visibly crestfallen when Aramis declared that they would not use them in the near future; Athos had deteriorated so dramatically and rapidly that any further movement of him needed to be minimal and only if necessary.

He was restless, his head moving fitfully and his hands constantly teasing at the sheet that was pulled up to his waist. Eyes closed and unaware of the minute watch kept by the men around him, he murmured continually, distressed by whatever it was that haunted him. Aramis leaned forward and tried several times to ascertain what was bothering him but he only garnered snatched words that, on their own, revealed nothing.

"Of what does he speak?" Tréville asked at one point as he stood, arms folded, looking down on the soldier.

"I don't know," Aramis answered sadly, "for I can only understand odd words but I think he repeats himself over and over again. There are two names in particular that he keeps mentioning: Thomas and Anne."

"I believe Thomas was his late brother," Tréville offered, "but I know nothing of an Anne."

"He has spoken very occasionally of a woman in his past but you know what he is like about keeping that part of his life secret and most definitely history. Perhaps it is her."

At Aramis' words, d'Artagnan turned pale as he remembered the wife Athos had told him about in the aftermath of the fire at his manor in Pinon. The young Gascon had promised never to reveal what had transpired on that occasion to either Porthos or Aramis, and although he hated keeping anything that he considered important from them, his oath to Athos was far more precious. Was Anne his wife whom he confessed to having condemned to death and who had somehow been resurrected to threaten the life of the former Comte? Why did he think of her now? D'Artagnan hoped that Aramis would not look in his direction, for although he attempted to school his features, he did not think he was being successful and he feared the marksman asking too many pointed questions as a consequence.

"He also keeps asking 'What have you done?' so I can only imagine that something terrible occurred. Look at him now."

Tréville hooked his foot around a stool leg and dragged it closer, settling on it beside Athos as he and Aramis endeavoured to identify what the sick musketeer was saying.

Athos' face crumpled and, to their great consternation, tears began to trickle from beneath closed lids and down his cheeks as his voice broke. "No, no! What have you done? How could you?" and he finished with an agonised groan as if the very sound was being forcibly wrenched from him.

Aramis took Athos' right hand between his own and gave it a gentle squeeze in a desperate bid to let his brother know of his continued presence; it was some time since they had resolved that they could not hold him in their arms again for he was far too hot and struggled weakly in their clasp.

"Sssh, my friend. Do not alarm yourself so. These are nothing but bad memories and we need you to concentrate on getting well again; we are all with you – d'Artagnan, Porthos, the Captain, the physician and me. We will not leave you alone. Be calm and try to rest," Aramis said softly, more from the need to feel that he was doing something and hoping, rather than believing, that Athos could hear him.

The words had no effect and Athos grew increasingly agitated. Now Tréville reached out a hand and laid it on the ailing man's head. Hair was plastered around Athos' face but it was the intense heat coming off him in waves that had Tréville's eyes widening in surprise. The officer moved his hand to cup the reddened cheek, the only colour in a face that was almost as white as the pillow against which it lay.

"You surely don't want me to issue you with an order," Tréville chided soothingly, "but I will if you want me to." He adopted a tone of mock brusqueness. "I cannot have one of my best men lying abed all hours when there is work to be done. I need you fit for duty as soon as possible so it would be a good idea if you settled to some genuine rest as Aramis suggests. Listen well to him; he usually gives you good advice if you would but heed it for once in your life. So, stop upsetting yourself," and, without thinking, he wiped the nearest tear away with his thumb.

He glanced towards Aramis and saw immediately that the marksman had been witness to the gesture when he smiled in appreciative understanding.

"He only ever listens to you," Aramis said, nodding towards Athos who had grown still and seemed quieter at the sound of the officer's voice.

Trévillle raised an eyebrow. "That's as maybe, but I just wish he'd try listening a bit more than he does."

The remark elicited a light chuckle from Aramis who wrung out a cloth and laid it across Athos' forehead again.

The scene was warming and imbued with a rough tenderness that only men comfortable in themselves, their brotherhood and tough situations could acknowledge and demonstrate, but Gabon was mesmerised as he watched and listened.

Had there been a timepiece in the room, they would have studied the slow, inexorable movement of the hands marking the passage of the minutes leading towards the hours as they sat in silence …. waiting …. hoping and, in the case of Aramis, praying. Eyes closed, head bowed and hand resting lightly on Athos' arm, his lips moved in rapid, quiet Latin as he beseeched his God to take pity upon his sick brother and spare him a premature and horrible end.

Unable to endure the tension any longer, d'Artagnan leaped up and fled from the room. He controlled himself enough that he did not slam the door behind him but softly drew it shut before he collapsed onto the bench that had been placed outside the door by some well-meaning comrades. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that he should not stray far nor talk to anyone and he was relieved by the instruction for his heart was too charged to speak. It was only a matter of minutes before he heard the door open and close quietly again and he expected that either Porthos or Aramis had followed him. The wooden bench creaked as the other person lowered himself onto it and seemed content to just sit in the eerie silence that had descended upon the garrison in the late evening.

"He would not want to see you like this."

The voice, deep and mellow, belonged to Tréville. Startled and embarrassed by his emotional display, d'Artagnan sniffed loudly and wiped hastily at his eyes with the heel of a hand.

"I know," he admitted eventually when he trusted himself to speak. "That's why I came out here, in case he was ….was still aware of what was going on around him."

They fell silent, Tréville content to just sit and wait until d'Artagnan was ready to say more – many was the time when such a tactic had worked with Athos – and the young man appreciated the officer's steadying presence and patient air.

"I can't stand to see him brought so low, made so helpless like this," d'Artagnan confessed. "He seems to sleep the least of us, is always busy about something or off by himself. This enforced confinement, this terrible illness that may kill him is all wrong."

"You have never had occasion to see him injured or ill," Tréville commented.

D'Artagnan gave a wry smile, "Only drunk."

Tréville laughed softly. "Even in his cups, he has the capability still to be standing when many another man would be felled by the alcohol." He became serious and looked at the young musketeer carefully. "You are right, there is something awry when a man such as Athos can fall victim so drastically to an illness but, perhaps, it is harder for us who watch and wait and are angry in our helplessness. By dint of our occupation, we are men of action and it does not sit well with us when we are told there is nothing that could or should be done in any specific eventuality. At least that would give us some semblance of control, even if the situation is futile but here, with him so sick, there is nothing worse than standing by, powerless to do anything effective, as he slips away from us. It is natural to want to assist him but he must do this on his own."

"Does he want to though?" d'Artagnan whispered his greatest fear. "Does he want to survive? Some dark thoughts burden him now in his delirium. Can he fight them enough?" The newest musketeer turned troubled eyes upon the seasoned soldier who was his commanding officer and he found himself suddenly desperately wanting to share the terrible secret he had borne for Athos over several months.

"He is torn by the guilt of having his wife executed. He knew it was his duty even though he loved her with every fibre of his being. Somehow she has escaped her sentence and has returned after five years to make his life hell and has tried to kill him."

He imagined blurting out the whole sorry tale, knowing that it would do much to explain the reticence and guilt of his brother. Tréville would know what to do, how to help, what to say to Athos to ease his pain. The Captain would make the decision to reveal all to Porthos and Aramis so there would no longer be the need to guard what one said. The old adage claimed that a trouble shared was a trouble halved; it had not worked when Athos had drunkenly and brokenly confided in him for he had not known how to react or what to say to support his new friend but perhaps, if Tréville were privy to what had transpired, he would know exactly what to do and Athos' nightmarish burden would ease and the path of self-destruction that he seemed determined to follow at times would be closed to him for good. Supposing, though, there was no time for that redemption and, in his barely conscious state, Athos gave up the struggle?

D'Artagnan remained silent.

"I have known Athos for the best part of five years," Tréville began. "He came to the regiment a much troubled man but, over time, he has found his place. I think he really feels that he belongs now. He still has bad days when, for whatever reason, his only solace is in a good bottle of claret or more but he is a damned good soldier and perhaps, occasionally, he realises it. One thing I do know and that is that he has an inner strength that goes beyond that of others. Whatever his personal demons may be, they would have destroyed many a man but he has fought them and survived to face another day. He has good friends at his side in you, Porthos and Aramis, and you are all good reason enough for him to want to continue living."

"But if this illness should prove too strong even for him?" d'Artagnan persisted.

Tréville hesitated. "Then we must face what comes for there is no changing it on our part. We will find the strength in our memories of the good times we have had with him and we will stand strong together."

D'Artagnan suddenly realised that Tréville had ceased to talk of the _Inseparables_ alone and had included himself.

The young man frowned, sure that he should be taking comfort from the words but finding their intensity frightening instead.

"Do you think he will live?" he asked at last. He fixed dark, sad eyes upon the officer.

"I honestly do not know," Tréville admitted, a catch in his voice. "I have to tell myself repeatedly that he will survive and believe it, for I am not ready to lose one of the best soldiers this regiment has ever seen and I am certainly not prepared to see him put in the ground before me."


	9. Chapter 9

_**Many thanks to all who continue to read, comment, follow and/or favourite this story. Here is the chapter I wrote on planes over the past week, having had a wonderful but all-too brief sojourn in the Ozark Mountains in Missouri; I met some wonderfully talented and friendly people there. The whole week was a joy (once I'd got to the hotel at Heathrow - I was staying there for the third year in a row and got lost yet again - spectacularly this time. Then I got to the airport the next morning to find my flight was cancelled so was worried I'd miss the Chicago connection but they got me on an earlier flight - which was already delayed!) I do have some adventures - most far more pleasurable than others! The return yesterday was uneventful but I am blaming any typos on jetlag!**_

 _ **Anyway, the crisis continues as this chapter covers about four hours and the wonderful Serge decides to say his piece -only it's Treville who has to do the listening this time!**_

THE ELEVENTH HOUR

After the stuffy atmosphere of the infirmary, the cool air of the late September evening was refreshing and Tréville and d'Artagnan sat in the shadows, unaware of the passing of time as they talked softly. The garrison was eerily quiet and Tréville knew that there would be a general unease following Athos' emerging illness.

Francois Didier was currently on guard and he had visibly moved away from the pair, keen to maintain a safe distance from them in the absence of any firm details as to what ailed the musketeer. He had inquired after Athos' health but Tréville had only responded with a circumspect comment and to confirm that the swordsman still lived, although he refrained from divulging just how dire the situation was.

The door opened and Gabon appeared, his manner uncomfortable as he spoke.

"It is probably best that you both come inside now," he said quietly. "He is worse."

It was a euphemism for the fact that he firmly believed Athos to be dying.

D'Artagnan leaped to his feet. "No! No!" he cried out in disbelief as he ran back into the infirmary.

Tréville pushed himself reluctantly to his feet, suddenly very weary and acutely aware of how old he was feeling. The two men faced each other.

"What is happening?" Tréville wanted to know.

"He struggles for breath and the pain around his heart is evident now; he clutches repeatedly at his chest," Gabon answered, careful to keep his tone even.

"Do you think he will live?" Tréville asked, conscious that he was repeating d'Artagnan's earlier question. It was odd, he admitted ruefully to himself, that he sought his own desperate reassurance, even as the young musketeer had done.

"I am not a gambling man," Gabon began. "I have neither the wherewithal nor the inclination to risk all on the turn of a card but even if I were, I would not indulge myself in stakes such as these. I fear that I would lose and most heavily," the physician concluded.

Tréville nodded at the words, not wanting to accept the man's voicing of his own fears. When the physician re-entered the infirmary, the musketeer Captain remained outside, unwilling to confront what might amount to being the final battle and so he sank tiredly onto the bench once more.

"How's our boy farin'?" asked a low voice from the darkness, startling him initially although he recognised its owner even before the old cook emerged from the shadows.

Tréville leaned back against the wall. "You shouldn't be anywhere near me."

"The same way you shouldn't have been anywhere near the boy if it's catchin'? Serge huffed as he deliberately sat down on the bench beside the Captain. "I see you took a lot of notice of that."

"If I recall correctly, I didn't have much choice in the matter," Tréville countered as he slid along to the far end of the bench.

"An' I'm makin' my choice then. I'm sittin' here in the fresh air of the late evenin' an' talkin' with my commandin' officer. What could be so wrong in that?" the old soldier declared, but he compromised and, in his turn, slid to the other end of the bench, widening the physical gulf between them.

In the darkness, Tréville gave a smile at the other man's dogged determination to defy what common sense dictated.

"And if it is catching, you'll be at risk of spreading it to the other men," he reasoned, secretly glad that the older man was prepared to jeopardise his own well-being to give the officer some much-needed, unspoken support and comradeship. "If you do that, I may have to court martial you."

The old man snorted in amusement. "If I do that, you won't get the chance because I'll probably 'ave given up the ghost by then an' if it's that catchin', you're in line to get it before me so you'll be dead an' buried first and won't be able to do it anyway."

The sound of their soft, shared laughter broke the night.

"So I'm sittin' here at the far end of the bench an' I'm not plannin' on stoppin' too long but I'm thinkin' you haven't answered my question yet. That makes me a little worried. How's the boy?" Serge repeated.

The officer sighed. "He's battling, Serge, and I honestly do not know if he is going to win."

The old man lapsed into a thoughtful silence. "That serious then?"

"Injuries and wounds I can accept – albeit reluctantly – but this …" His voice trailed off. There was some comfort to be had in confiding in the old soldier with whom he had served so many years, even before he had been given the King's mandate to form the Musketeers. He realised that he had been attempting to offer encouragement to the other friends of the stricken man and that he desperately sought his own solace in light of what the physician had said.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to let him go like this," he admitted.

"There's nothing you nor I can do about it," the old man said sagely. "Only God can see His way to sparin' the boy."

Tréville felt the cold hand of fear grip at his stomach. Over the years, he could count on one hand the number of times Serge had made reference to the Almighty, putting a situation into His hands, and it was usually in the bleakest of circumstances.

"The boy's got fight though, I'll give him that," Serge continued.

In the darkness, Tréville shook his head but the old soldier had seen the movement in the weak candlelight that filtered through the infirmary window.

"I don't think he's got the physical strength to fight much longer," he explained. "I've never seen anything like this, Serge. It's fast and vicious and goes through many stages. I try to hang onto the knowledge that he's lived longer than a lot of others who have succumbed to this but it's going to be about noon tomorrow before we will know whether or not he will really survive it."

"Another twelve hours then," Serge calculated.

"That's about it. Each minute he lives should give us more hope but, according to Gabon, he's at the crisis stage now and there's a part of me that does not want to witness his struggle."

"Never thought I'd see the day when you turned your back on a skirmish," Serge commented challengingly.

Tréville bristled. "I wouldn't call this a skirmish." A definite edge had crept into his voice. "I know when to enter the fray and when to order a calculated retreat."

"An' are you goin' to leave this boy fightin' on his own just so you can retreat an' save face by not watchin' when things get ugly?" Serge retaliated, all softness gone from his own tone.

"Serge, I don't think you understand what …"

"Oh I think I understand plenty," the older man interrupted, only his advanced years and the longevity of their odd friendship giving him the courage and the right to speak his mind so plainly, thereby ignoring the rank of the other man. "How long have I known you? I've seen you as the green recruit an' lost count of all the mistakes I've seen you make along the way. I've been there to bind some of the hurts you've picked up an' I've stood back an' watched you become the damned fine officer you are now."

"I wouldn't …" Tréville began, embarrassed by what the cook had said.

"Well I would," Serge cut him off again, "an' I know all these men follow you because they love you an' respect you, but I know that behind that gruff front you're so fond of putting' on, that you'd do anythin' for the men of the regiment, especially those four," and he jerked his head in the direction of the infirmary's interior where the greatest battle of all was being fought.

When Tréville made to speak again, Serge quickly silenced him with a raised hand. The officer did not even regard this as disrespectful as he found himself once again the raw, young soldier on the receiving end of the seasoned veteran's words of wisdom.

"You've got a softness for those four, an' you can pretend all you want that it's otherwise but I've seen it an' I know it an' for that sick boy most of all. You've expended more time an' energy on him than you 'ave many others an' I don't believe that you're ready to give up on that particular investment. I'm not criticisin'; you an' me can both see he's worth it in the long run. So, you might not be able to do too much about what's eatin' away at him now, but you need to go back in that room for whatever's happenin'.

"He doesn't need me; his brothers are with him," Tréville managed to interject.

"I wouldn't expect them to be anywhere else," Serge agreed, "but that boy worships the ground you walk on for the chances you've given him an' more besides so you should be in there with him, not hidin' out here."

If Serge had been anyone else, the comment would have been both unforgivable and unacceptable but Tréville knew that the old man was well-meaning – and correct! With a sigh, he got to his feet, eying the door to the infirmary with an uncharacteristic nervousness and then down at the old soldier.

"That's told me," he smiled weakly. "I'm on my way."

"You just tell that boy that we're all thinkin' and prayin' for him out here; everyone's worried about him. You remember to tell him."

Tréville nodded. "I'll tell him."

"That's alright then," said the cook as he stood with a groan at the creaking of old bones long past their days of soldiering. Seconds later, he had melted back into the darkness.

Inhaling deeply as he sought to steel himself for what lay ahead, Tréville opened the infirmary door and went back inside, concerned about what he would find.

It was not good.

Aramis had settled into his customary position sitting on the edge of the cot at Athos' right hip. Porthos remained on his chair but he had edged it a little closer to his sick brother whilst d'Artagnan knelt anxiously by the bed, holding one of Athos' hands in his own in a forlorn bid to communicate his presence and support.

Gabon remained at a discreet distance, ever watchful but knowing that there was little he could do to alleviate the sick musketeer's suffering.

It was the sound that Athos was making that was the most disturbing. With eyes closed, face sheened in sweat, soaked curls adhering to his forehead and cheeks, he was panting for breath. They were rapid, shallow and rasping gasps as he struggled to fill his failing lungs. It was strange to see him sitting upright, buttressed by a plethora of pillows but they did little to ease his predicament.

Periodically his features contorted and his restless, free hand scrabbled desperately at his chest, shocking evidence of the pain he was experiencing in the vicinity of his heart – and there was nothing they could do.

Quietly, methodically, Aramis soaked a cloth repeatedly in cold water and gently dabbed at Athos' face.

"Easy, my friend," he said softly, acutely aware that Athos was completely oblivious to his presence.

Carefully, he took hold of the hand that clutched at Athos' chest, squeezed it tightly as a measure of reassurance and laid his own hand over the rapidly beating heart.

"It's very erratic," he commented sombrely to the others, not wishing to alarm them any further by elaborating upon the fact that, at times, it felt as if the heart would burst, the palpitations were so strong.

D'Artagnan sat wide-eyed and helpless; Porthos' misery began to metamorphose into an impotent, silent rage; Aramis commenced his prayers anew whilst Tréville frowned and willed the regiment's finest swordsman to fight for his life.

Gabon sat on the periphery, a redundant outsider and casual observer who had become so immersed in the fascinating relationship between the five men that he too longed for a positive outcome to the situation.

Time crept on inexorably. The thirteenth hour began and although the noisy, tortuous breathing continued, at least Athos still breathed.

Drenched in sweat, he sat propped against the pillows, the fevered rosiness in his cheeks fading to a blanched sickliness – but still he breathed.

Exhausted and too weak to move of his own volition, the only way his friends could ascertain that the pain in his chest still plagued him was from the pinched tightness of his brows and the lines around his eyes – but still he breathed.

Aramis continued bathing his face, neck, chest, arms and hands in cool water, patting him dry and maintaining his one-sided conversation as he hoped and prayed that he could provide some relief with the familiarity of touch and the sound of his voice. The rough, calloused hands of the musketeer were imbued with a brotherly tenderness that never waned as time moved on.

In the early hours of the morning, the only sounds in the room were of Athos' belaboured breathing for the gathered men had at last fallen silent. They lacked the words to encourage each other anymore, drained as they were by the strain and terrified that each muted, bubbling breath might be the last. Even Aramis' prayers were no longer audible, although his companions noted that his lips moved as he mentally intoned each word.

Aramis had not meant to fall asleep but his sick brother had failed to give a visible response or reaction to any of their ministrations or voices for several hours, heralding bitter disappointment amongst those who watched over him and sorely taxing their own reserves of strength. It was not surprising, therefore, that Aramis had given in to exhaustion, although he later adamantly swore that he could not have been asleep for long but it was enough that his head drooped where he sat and his own breathing had become deep and regular when a shaking hand rested upon his shoulder, abruptly bringing him awake.

He looked up into Tréville's face and saw there an unreadable expression. Glancing round at the other three men, he saw that they had all finally given in to the demands of their bodies and fallen asleep and he felt a deep-seated guilt that none of them had managed to stay awake to tend to any need that Athos might have. Whether the Captain had succeeded in remaining awake was immaterial for that same guilt escalated and nearly choked Aramis when Tréville spoke, an ill-concealed catch in the older man's voice betraying his overwhelming emotion.

"He has grown quiet," the Captain ground out.

Swivelling his head quickly, Aramis looked to the ailing musketeer, suddenly aware that the sound of the awful rasping breaths that had pervaded the infirmary for over four hours was no more.

Athos remained sitting, propped up against the bank of pillows, sweat-soaked hair falling in untidy clumps about his face. His skin, devoid of any sign of the sun even in the height of summer, had adopted the most unearthly pallor. Lids were shut tight on the gimlet green eyes that had the power to wither and intimidate a felon or opponent at close quarters; instead, long, dark lashes fanned out above finely sculptured cheekbones. The listless hands now rested, motionless, in his lap, adding to the unnatural aura of stillness that surrounded him; it was as if his soul had already departed and all that remained in the infirmary was an empty shell of the man who had once been the unparalleled swordsman in the King's regiment of musketeers.

"Athos!" he called quietly, urgently even as his hand felt for a beat in the heart that had struggled for so long. "Athos!" the name was louder, more plaintiff as the others rudely awakened at his tone, their faces a haunting image of unadulterated terror at what might have happened.

"He's not …?" Porthos left the question unfinished as, wide-eyed, he edged forward on the chair, his hands clinging to the seat itself.

"No!" d'Artagnan gasped in disbelief as he dropped to the floor beside the bed and looked frantically, firstly at Athos and then at Aramis who cupped the sick man's cheek in his hand and then gently stroked the pale face before he laid his head against the chest, once more listening and feeling for any sign that his brother still lived.

All eyes were on him and the wait for his proclamation interminable but initially he could not speak, could not find the words. All he could do was plant a kiss on the clammy but cooling forehead and try to control the juddering sobs that threatened to be his undoing.

Eventually he turned teary eyes on the fearful men who watched him and gave them a relieved but tentative smile.

"Thanks be to God," he whispered. "Athos is sleeping."

 _ **A/N Did toy with the idea of ending the chapter three paragraphs earlier but thought you would not appreciate that!**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Dear all, well here it is – the final chapter of this little escapade. Thank you for staying with me on this one and I am sure there will be relief from at least one guest who was worried that I had ended the story in chapter 9! It's been a fun one – total hurt/comfort.**_

 _ **Many thanks to all who have read, commented, speculated, 'favourited' and 'followed'; there is much pleasure to be had in hearing from you and I really do appreciate the time you take to do that and for your feedback.**_

 _ **Am planning a little 'Christmas Special' (Remember new born baby Marius last year? He'll be one next month …. and some of you did wonder what had become of him!)**_

 _ **Before that, I have a musketeer to rescue from the mud in 'Retribution' so that is coming VERY soon.**_

 _ **And before that, we have to make sure that Athos is merely sleeping ….**_

 **THE THIRTEENTH HOUR**

"Are you sure?" d'Artagnan asked with bated breath, hardly daring to believe that it was possible.

"Of course I am sure," Aramis said, his features dissolving into the broadest grin he had managed since the morning his brothers had departed for Picardy. At least, the others could tell that he was grinning from the gleam in his eyes above the mask that still covered his mouth. There had been little to smile about since but, just to make sure, he stroked the dishevelled hair aside to lay his hand on Athos' brow and then moved to test the temperature of the man's cheek and neck. Then he felt once more the steady heartbeat and let his hand remain there.

"His temperature is not yet normal but he is much cooler to the touch; the intense fever has gone that has had him in its grip for the past few hours. His heartbeat is, thankfully, slower and steadier, and his breathing is deeper, more regular. I may even go so far as to say the rash he has is not as angry as it was before. Our Athos is definitely asleep," he announced, conscious that he was still grinning wildly.

Porhthos jumped up, hauled d'Artagnan to his feet and engulfed him in a crushing bear hug, his delight and relief tangible.

"He will live then?" d'Artagnan gasped, trying to peer over Porthos' shoulder at the physician.

Gabon shook his head. "I do not want to appear pessimistic but, I repeat, I have no experience of this sickness, the only learning that I have comes from those books but I would urge caution. Whilst the information says that with every hour after the first twelve, a person's chances of survival improves, it is not until twenty-four have passed that the outlook appears certain. I agree that everything suggests that he is past the worst but we have no idea whether there has been any longer lasting damage, especially in the wake of the last stage of symptoms. What has been happening to his heart? The books tell me nothing about that."

The physician watched as the faces of the four men fell in disappointment. The chilling reality was that little was known and documented regarding the later hours of the sickness. All that was clear from the books Gabon had read was that there was no certainty of recovery after twelve hours, merely that there was room for hope as the time passed. It would not be until twenty-four hours had transpired and Athos still lived that they could breathe more easily themselves – and then there would be the nervous wait to see if any of them began to show similar symptoms. How long would they be shut within the infirmary walls before they believed that is was safe to venture out amongst the men of the garrison?

"But he's breathin' now and looks like he's restin' for the first time in hours. That's good enough for me. As far as I'm concerned, he's turned a corner," announced Porthos, ever the optimist, but it was the positive pronouncement that the musketeers needed to lift them from their melancholy: they had seen their brother and friend suffering in a way that defied description and none dared speak of the continuing anxiety they felt as each feared developing the sweating sickness themselves.

"You're right," d'Artagnan beamed, slapping Porthos on the back. "Athos has beaten this; he will get well."

 **THE SIXTEENTH HOUR**

Athos began to be aware of things once more. The taste in his mouth was foul and held no moisture and when he tried to move, his leaden limbs failed to respond. He was sitting upright, supported by a mass of pillows and he thought it an odd position in which he had been sleeping, not one that he usually favoured. Prising open an eye, he focused on his surroundings, recognising it immediately as the infirmary but he could not for the life of him recall why he should be there. He had no memory of being injured and he tentatively endeavoured to move, bracing himself for the explosion of pain that he anticipated would be the result – but there was nothing. Perhaps he had received a blow to the head but, when he attempted to turn it to the right, there was none of the expected stiffness or ache, dull or otherwise. Instead, his gaze alighted upon a familiar figure who, sitting beside him, edged closer as soon as he saw that he was awake.

"Hello, there," Aramis said softly. "You don't know how pleased I am to see you open your eyes."

He glanced around him and Athos did likewise. He was not surprised to see Porthos and d'Artagnan stretched out on spare cots in the room but he did attempt to raise an eyebrow at the sight of Tréville lying on another one, sleeping soundly and he certainly did not know the elderly man seated at the table, head nodding as he dozed lightly.

He made to speak but no sound came out so he ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and coughed lightly.

"Do you want some water?" Aramis asked, reaching for a cup and pitcher from the table beside the cot.

Athos nodded, grateful that he did not have to be raised up. There was some benefit after all to being propped up by pillows for he did not even have to move his head. Aramis put the cup to his lips.

"Just sip it," the marksman advised.

Running the small amount of cool liquid around his mouth, Athos felt immediate relief and thought it nothing short of nectar. Several sips later, he had had enough and signalled the same to his friend by turning his head away momentarily, affording him the time to moisten his lips successfully at last.

"What …?" he began, but his voice lacked strength.

"Happened?" Aramis finished for him before continuing as lightly as possible, "You have been very ill, my friend. We were worried that we were going to lose you."

It had to have been serious if the _Inseparables_ had not moved away from him but it was a little strange that the Captain was there as well and that still did not explain the identity of the old man. Evidence of the severity of his illness was also apparent in the cloth bound over each man's nose and mouth whether they were resting at a distance or close by him; he was believed to be infectious then. That did not bode well.

"How long?" Athos asked, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. He had no memory of feeling or being ill and he wondered how much time had elapsed.

"About fourteen, fifteen hours."

Athos frowned. What could have been so life-threatening, rendering him as helpless as a new-born babe and then supposedly sparing him in such quick succession?

"What?" he asked again.

"Nothing for you to worry about right now. I will explain everything as soon as you are stronger and more able to understand. You must rest," Aramis insisted for he had seen his friend struggling to stay awake.

With a sigh, Athos allowed his heavy eyes to close and rapidly drifted away.

 **THE EIGHTEENTH HOUR**

Dawn was spreading across the Paris sky and the garrison showed signs of muted activity as men awoke, changed duties and gathered in the mess room for an update. Since Serge had spoken with Tréville the previous evening, word had spread that Athos was dangerously ill. Added to the fact that their commanding officer had long been shut away in the infirmary and issued strange instructions about guarding the place and leaving food outside, it had not taken them long to correctly surmise that the affliction was potentially contagious, not that that was their prime concern for Athos was a well-liked and much respected member of the musketeer brotherhood. Congregating to break their fast, they were disappointed to discover that there was no further news and they urged Serge to take food to the infirmary in order find out what had happened during the night.

As the old cook ventured across the yard carrying a tray, the infirmary door opened and Tréville stepped out to meet him, pulling the mask from his face before placing hands on his waist and leaning backwards to stretch away the stiffness of the night.

"I've brought you some food," the seasoned veteran said hesitantly. "I'll put it over here, shall I?" and he moved to put the tray down on the bench where he had sat with the captain only hours beforehand. He stepped back several paces and wiped the palms of his hands nervously down the backs of his breeches.

"We was wonderin'," and he paused to look back over his shoulder at the men who had silently filed out of the mess hall in his wake, "how the boy was this mornin'." He was watching Tréville's expression, trying to gauge what the news might be but the officer's face revealed nothing.

Suddenly, Tréville smiled. "He has survived the night; the fever has gone and he has woken once."

An audible sigh of relief swept through the men but they controlled their exuberance, not wanting their noise to disturb the sick musketeer.

"That's good to hear," Serge replied as his voice cracked, betraying his emotional involvement. He cleared his throat as he fought to assume a more matter-of-fact demeanour. "I'll set about making some broth. He'll need to eat to get his strength back quickly." He turned to walk back towards his kitchen, signalling to encourage the men to move ahead of him.

Tréville stood and watched as the soldiers dispersed, their mood clearly different from when they had emerged from the building opposite. There was the mutter of voices and some broke off from the larger group to share the encouraging news with other colleagues; still more of them raised a hand in a gesture of good will as they went.

Smiling again to himself as he bent to pick up the tray, Tréville felt blessed that he was the leader of a regiment of such concerned, generous-spirited and united men.

 **THE TWENTY-FIRST HOUR**

When Athos sluggishly awoke a second time, it was gone eight in the morning and the chair beside him was empty – but not for long.

"I saw you stirring and thought I'd better get some of this from where we've been keeping it warm," the Captain said, sliding into the seat and indicating the bowl he carried in his hand. "Beef broth. Serge has made this especially for you and given me strict instructions that you are to eat some of it every time you open your eyes. We wouldn't want to upset him now, would we?"

He held out the bowl of broth and Athos frowned in concentration as he strove to reach for it but his body was still too weak and failed to respond. He sank further into the pillows with a sigh of frustration.

"Never mind. Just hope this isn't too hot. You don't want a burned mouth on top of everything else," and, without thinking, he spooned up some broth and leaned closer, holding out the full spoon and the bowl beneath it to catch any drips. He paused when Athos did not open his mouth and smothered a grin as he saw the man's eyes widen instead in embarrassment at the prospect of being fed by his commanding officer.

Still unperturbed, Tréville gestured again with the spoon.

"Where are the others?" Athos managed, wishing fervently that one of his brothers would suddenly appear.

"Oh they ate something and settled down to sleep again. You've caused us some considerable worry since you got back yesterday and there was little rest for anyone well into the night." He tried again with the spoon and stopped as Athos' face fell.

"I am sorry," the younger musketeer apologised.

Tréville dropped the spoon back into the bowl and studied him closely. "Did you deliberately fall ill?"

"Well, no but …." Athos began, thinking it a strange question.

"Then you have nothing for which to apologise, do you?" and he held out the spoon once more.

"I don't even know what has been happening," Athos persisted. "How have I been ill?"

"Why don't we come to an agreement?" Tréville suggested. "You eat and I'll talk."

The compromise was so unexpected that Athos opened his mouth automatically as the spoon bore down on him again and he listened to the Captain's explanation.

 **THE TWENTY-SECOND HOUR**

D'Artagnan and Porthos were disappointed that they had once again missed Athos' brief period of wakefulness but Aramis was pleased to hear that he had eaten half a bowl of broth before his eyes slid closed and Tréville gave up on recounting events of the preceding hours.

"He is sleeping and eating," Aramis said, "and we move ever closer to noon with its twenty-four-hour deadline. The fever has gone so he must be out of danger now, surely?" and he looked to Gabon, seeking the long-desired reassurance.

The physician shrugged. "It is certainly more positive than a few hours ago. I just regret that I have not yet been awake myself at the same time as him for I would like to see and speak with him."

"When I spoke with him, he remembered nothing," Tréville reminded them all.

"That is unfortunate," Gabon said regretfully, "but I shall write an account of the circumstances. Who knows when this might occur again."

"Not soon, I hope," Tréville added. "We don't want to provide you with any more eye-witness opportunities. Have you any idea how long we will have to remain in here?"

"We do not know where your man picked up the sickness. It's likely that it was in the village where he stopped but we do not know that for certain for d'Artagnan here appears unscathed and we would have expected it to come upon him by now. If correct, then it came upon him with such a frightening speed that we should fall sick within the next day."

The physician's grim deliberation did nothing to dampen their renewed spirits but hours of constant worry and incarceration were giving way to monotony and boredom as Athos slept on easily. Tempers were beginning to show signs of fraying until Tréville sent out for more paperwork and other tasks to keep Porthos and d'Artagnan occupied. Whilst Gabon set about writing his account of the sweating sickness and how it had affected Athos, Tréville concentrated anew on the drudgery of paperwork whilst Porthos and d'Artagnan cleaned weapons left for them outside the infirmary in baskets with the necessary paraphernalia. Aramis contented himself folding soiled bed linen, checking medical supplies within the infirmary and generally sitting beside his sleeping brother.

And so the hours passed.

 **TWENTY-FIFTH HOUR**

When Athos next awoke, it was somewhat disconcerting to find himself surrounded by five men all peering at him intently over their masks and, as soon as his eyes were half opened, their voices began asking questions simultaneously. He winced at the cacophony.

"Ssshhh," insisted d'Artagnan. "Give him leave to answer."

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked when the noise had subsided.

"I'm not sure I'm awake enough to know fully but I think I feel fine," Athos answered warily, snippets of what Tréville had been telling him still in his mind from the last time he awoke.

"Do you have any pain in your chest?" This came from the old man and Athos frowned as he wondered if he ought to recognise the man.

"This is Doctor Gabon whom we brought in from the palace when you were first taken ill. It is thanks to him and his books that we had some understanding of what was wrong," Tréville explained, seeing Athos' confusion.

"I am pleased to meet you properly at last, young man," Gabon said breezily, extending a hand somewhat formally and shaking Athos by the hand. "You look and sound much better than when I first arrived. So tell me, any pain?"

Athos thought for a minute. "I am not aware of any."

There was a collective sigh of relief from the men around the bed.

"Anywhere at all?" Gabon went on. Athos shook his head.

"Do you know everyone here?"

Athos looked at the physician suspiciously, his eyes narrowing in that familiar expression of scepticism. "Of course, especially now that you have been introduced."

"Name them," Gabon insisted.

Feeling somewhat foolish, Athos did as he was bidden.

"Good, good!" Gabon was delighted. "Tell me, are we still under threat of attack?"

Thoroughly confused now and convinced that the physician was not as clear thinking as he ought to be, Athos looked around at his fellow musketeers for direction.

D'Artagnan sat heavily on the side of the cot next to him. "You were sure that Beauvais and his men were going to invade Paris and the garrison and that we," he indicated those present, "were all in a plot with him to overthrow the King."

"I thought that?" Athos looked perplexed, remembering none of it.

"One of the symptoms of the illness is anxiety and you certainly came up with an interesting concoction of worries to keep us on our toes. You would have us double the guard," Aramis explained.

"But that was before you flew at d'Artagnan and threatened the Captain," Porthos added, delighting in his brother's growing discomfort.

"I did all that?" Athos whispered, thunderstruck by events.

"Yes, but you were ill and no-one got hurt. Porthos was prepared to sit on you if need be," d'Artagnan said.

"What?" Athos could not believe what he was hearing and the expression on his face caused his brothers to burst into laughter from behind their masks; the sound was sheer music when compared with the nervous whispering of earlier hours.

"Leave Athos alone," Tréville admonished, secretly pleased to hear the return of the banter which was an integral element of the relationship between the _Inseparables._

"Any headaches? Nausea? Are you too cold? Too hot?" Gabon tried again. Once more, Athos shook his head.

"Then you'll be ready to eat some more of this," Porthos announced, passing another bowl of beef broth to Aramis.

A further attempt at taking the food proved that Athos remained far too weak to fend for himself, the sweating sickness being utterly debilitating but the humiliation at being fed by his friend was not so marked this time. Even so, he wanted to give up after a few mouthfuls but Aramis pressed him to more and was not satisfied until he had consumed another half bowlful.

Tréville and Gabon drifted away to resume their work, leaving the four friends together.

"We must not tire you out," Aramis insisted. "You need your rest to regain your strength."

"All I am doing is resting," complained Athos as he endeavoured to stifle a yawn.

"My point entirely," Aramis quipped. He grew serious. "We would have you well again, my friend, as quickly as possible. The past twenty-four hours have been a waking hell for us and we would not see you suffer so again, not for anything."

"It was that bad then?" Athos asked quietly.

Three pairs of troubled eyes gazing at him from over their masks gave him his answer.

"I am sorry that I caused you so much worry but, as the Captain was so keen to point out, I did not do it with intent. It bothers me that I was so grievously ill but believe me when I say I recall nothing of it. There is obviously still some concern that I could infect you all, given that you wear those bindings across your face and that all of you, the Captain included, are within these walls."

Aramis sighed. "Gabon thought it a preventative measure and I understand his decision. It has killed thousands but little is known about how it spreads or what causes it in the first place. I am sure you would relish the history of it but it is not a subject for your hearing at present; there will be time enough when we can regale you with the tales Gabon has read to us."

"How long will we all be confined here?" Athos queried, a sense of irrational responsibility beginning to blossom. He knew that Tréville would be eager for a new-found freedom given his leadership role. Had there been any demands upon him from the palace that he had not been able to meet?

"We don't know as yet. We have been with you for over twenty-four hours now and so far, none of us is feeling ill in any way," d'Artagnan told him.

They fell silent for a few minutes until Aramis saw the flicker of discomfort cross Athos' face.

"What is it?" he asked, trying to suppress the rising anxiety.

"I am naked under this sheet and I need the pot," Athos whispered, looking at him directly in supplication and tilting his head slightly in the youngest musketeer's direction and towards where the two other men sat working.

"That's easily remedied," Aramis chuckled, galvanised into action. "d'Artagnan, make yourself useful by cleaning out this bowl and checking on how much of that broth is left." He waited until the Gascon had scurried away, happy to do anything of use. "Porthos can get you on your feet, turn you round so that your back is to the room and stand behind you. He can hold you steady, I'll hold the pot and you …" He was interrupted by Athos' cough and glare. He laughed again, "had better concentrate and aim straight!"

 **THIRTY-FIFTH HOUR**

When the occupants of the room had settled down for their second night in the infirmary, it had a completely different atmosphere from the previous one. Tréville and Gabon were making use of the other room whilst the _Inseparables_ commandeered the cots surrounding their recovering brother.

Athos had slept on and off during the afternoon and at one point, on waking, had wrinkled his nose in disgust and complained that he stank. This had led to a barrage of ribald, uncomplimentary comments that were largely in agreement and Tréville had given instructions for a tub and hot water to be delivered to outside the infirmary. They had then brought the tub in and set it before the fire which they had stoked up and filled the tub with hot water. The Captain and physician had retired to the second room, allowing Athos some privacy. It had taken the support of both Porthos and Aramis to get him from his bed to the tub and lowered into it as he was still devoid of any energy and the means to stand unaided. As he scrubbed himself clean of the stale odour of illness and Aramis hovered nearby in case he needed help, Porthos and d'Artagnan changed the bedding for what was hopefully the last time. The steam and soak in the hot water had a desired soporific effect upon Athos and he had no sooner settled back into the clean bed – minus some of the pillows so that he lay down properly – than he was sound asleep.

The other five ate a hearty meal, their appetites fully restored after the anxieties they had lived through, but there was enough of the venison stew remaining to vary Athos' diet when he awoke late evening.

The night was uneventful and the new day dawned with an increased feeling of optimism for all. Athos was still weak but had garnered enough strength with which to feed himself and subsequently devoured several slices of Serge's fresh warm bread with a soft cheese. He was awake for longer periods of time and more of the teasing was to be heard. Porthos joked that he actually had more colour in his face; he was a 'healthy' white instead of the 'sickly' white or 'feverish pink' he had exhibited before.

At noon, they celebrated the passing of forty-eight hours but still Gabon insisted that they pass one more day in isolation. His patience wearing dangerously thin at being shut up in the infirmary for so long, Tréville had growled that he was ready to spend one more night there but that he would be out and about _his_ garrison at sun-up the next day and Gabon would have to accept that decision.

By early evening the boredom and frustration were eating at everyone as all of them, Athos included, were desperate to get out of there. d'Artagnan fidgeted noisily; Porthos paced the floor, his booted steps resounding on the wooden boards; Athos repeatedly tried to escape from his bed but did not yet have the stamina to get far so surrendered easily when Aramis, humming tunelessly, pushed him back into it; Gabon began reading aloud the new document he had written detailing Athos' illness and Tréville …? Well Tréville, to safeguard his sanity, had left the confines of the room to sit on the bench outside in the cool September air and hoped that Serge might be disobedient enough to sit with him again.

He was not present, therefore, when Porthos suddenly stopped his pacing and crouched on his heels, staring intently at the corner of the room. He had been there for some time before d'Artagnan noticed him. Looking to where Porthos' eyes were fixated, he saw nothing.

Tapping Aramis on the shoulder to draw his attention away from the discussion he was having with Athos, d'Artagnan stepped carefully towards the big musketeer.

"What is it, Porthos? What are you looking at?" he asked.

Porthos pointed at empty space. "The duck," he answered simply.

Aramis and d'Artagnan moved forward for a better look, wondering how a duck might have wandered into the infirmary. There was nothing there. They exchanged puzzled glances, the first stirrings of unease registering in both of them.

"The duck," Aramis repeated, making it sound more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah," Porthos went on, a delighted smile spreading across his features. Several hours had passed since the men had decided to remove permanently the sheeting tied over their mouths and noses. "It's got beautiful colourin', hasn't it?"

"There is no duck," d'Artagnan hissed in alarm to Aramis.

"What duck?" demanded Athos from his bed.

"What duck?" Gabon added, rising to his feet and wondering if he was to get a second chance to witness the oddities of the illness manifesting themselves. He was already calculating in his head how many hours had passed since Porthos' initial exposure to the sweating sickness and was in the process of picking up his abandoned mask to replace it when there was a loud snort from Porthos and his head dipped. He was shaking convulsively.

Then Aramis realised that he was laughing, unable to maintain his pretence.

"Porthos?" he said slowly, dangerously.

Outside the door, Tréville heard the angry roars and he burst back into the room, unsure as to what he might find. Skidding to a halt, he saw Porthos on his knees, arms above his head in defence as Aramis and d'Artagnan hit him repeatedly and forcefully with a pillow each. Gabon and Athos, from their respective seat and bed, were throwing pillows across the room at the downed musketeer.

"What the ….?" Tréville was stunned and it was some time before he could make sense of the tale Aramis and d'Artagnan were trying to tell him. When he fully understood that Porthos had frightened them half to death with some stupid 'symptom' he had created of seeing a non-existent duck so that they thought that he, too, was succumbing to the disease, he growled menacingly, the pent-up frustrations of the day on the brink of finding release.

"I was just trying to lighten the mood a bit," Porthos pleaded to the Captain in defence.

"Lighten the …? I'll give you lighten the mood!" and Tréville snatched the remaining pillow that Athos was clutching and strode across the room, pelting Porthos as hard as he could around the head and shoulder with it. "Try a stunt like that again and you will 'lighten' the muck in the stables for a month!"

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **When the English Sweating Sickness 'disappeared' in the 1570s, nothing similar appeared until an outbreak of what was to be known as the Picardy Sweating Sickness was documented in 1718. This sickness was around for 200 years, probably disappearing with the traumatic influenza outbreak in the aftermath of WWI for it is not referred to after 1918.**_

 _ **So I used a little bit of 'historic licence' and had Athos presumably catching something similar when he and d'Artagnan went to Picardy. It did not erupt into a full blown epidemic and therefore (conveniently) went undocumented.**_

 _ **It was very similar to the English Sweating Sickness in all but two areas. The Picardy version did report a rash and the death rate was nowhere near as dire so Athos had more of a fighting chance!**_


End file.
